He can't smile at the jack o lantern face, but his fireflies brighten and he claps his hands (carefully; they're a little fragile) with approval. He always liked Halloween. And Autumn. And the dark and gently morbid. There's nothing in him that would hurt a soul. He just thinks bones and cemeteries and monsters are cool.

He sketches a heart in the air to express his delight and gratitude, then writes, I think Death is what you make of it. Can be awful if you expect it to be. Can be beautiful if you look for that instead. Can be magical.

The face he wore in life is flickering into focus now, like a spectral overlay across his bones. The eyes are still glowing from the fireflies, but she can see the somber, earnest, pointy little face, dark eyes, a tiny, reserved smile.

Can we? Will you make something with me?