Quinn was on edge all throughout the weekend. Every time there was a rustling sound, every time something moved in their peripheral vision, every time they felt a cold breeze, their head snapped around in hopes of seeing Vincent.

The two nights before, they had gone to their usual classroom, but Vincent had been nowhere to be found. The only thing keeping Quinn company had been the image of him in the narrow alley, flickering in and out of existence as he stared at the spot where his home had once been.

Thinking back to it, Quinn felt sick—even more so because they hadn't noticed the exact instant he'd disappeared. What if that moment in the alley had been the last time they'd seen him, and they hadn't even known? What if, in taking him there, Quinn had unintentionally made him even weaker? Vincent hadn't exactly been solid before, but the day before, with the snow simply drifting through his fragile form, he had been even less; the shadow of the shadow of a boy.

Monday night, Quinn entered the art building minutes after the last evening class had ended. They curled up on one of the uncomfortable chairs, one knee drawn to their chest as they watched the minutes tick by on the clock. The uneasy feeling that had settled in their stomach grew with every passing second. With Vincent nowhere to be seen, they became acutely aware of just how alone they were. After the nights spent with him, they had almost forgotten how long the hours between dusk and dawn could stretch, how the shadows tended to move and the wind seemed to whisper when you were afraid.

When the clock struck eleven and there still hadn't been a single sign from Vincent, Quinn got to their feet. Their steps echoed loudly from the walls as they made their way through the dark corridors, their shoulders drawn to their ears. By the time they were outside, stumbling down the narrow path that led to the dorm building, the familiar anxiety was digging its claws into their marrow as if it had never left.

They had almost reached the front door when a distinct snap behind them made them spin around, Vincent's name already on their tongue.

Instead, they turned to face two children standing a few feet down the path.

"Hello," one of them tentatively said. It was a girl who looked to be around eight years old—younger than Hannah, for sure, but older than the little boy hiding behind her. "Are you Quinn?"

Quinn could only nod, their brain still trying to process what they were looking at. The pair looked more solid than Vincent, more solid than Hannah, even more solid than the girl with red hair. The only hint that they weren't entirely here was the fact that, despite being barefoot in the snow, neither of them had left any footprints or seemed to be particularly cold. In addition, they seemed to be wearing pajamas; the boy a blue one with the Monster's Inc. logo, the girl a pink one with Ariel from The Little Mermaid.

"I'm Josie Thompson," the girl offered when Quinn didn't say anything. "And this is my brother, Caleb." She gave him a small nudge. "Caleb, say hi to Quinn."

The boy peeked out reluctantly from behind his sister's back. "Hello."

Josie turned back to Quinn, beaming expectantly. Meanwhile, Quinn suddenly felt sick to their stomach. "Thompson," they murmured. "Is... is your dad Adam Thompson?"

Both of them nodded.

Caleb and Josie Thompson. The children of the man who had been Oakriver's mayor for one week in 2001 before he, his wife and his children had been killed in a house fire caused by Valerie's family. Their names still echoed around the town; when they'd visited the cemetery, Quinn had noted that their headstones seemed to be the most frequented, barely visible under the number of flowers and toys people had left there.

Quinn tried to fight down the lump that grew in their throat as they took in their little pajamas again. Did these two even know they were dead? If not, did Quinn have to tell them? Did—

"It's okay," Josie said. Her smile had vanished, but she didn't exactly look sad—just thoughtful, troubled in a detached sort of way. Quinn couldn't blame her. Being eight was a confusing experience as it was—being eight years old and dead had to be even harder to grasp. "We know what happened. Vincent told us."

"Vincent," Quinn numbly repeated. "You... you know him?"

For the first time, Caleb's face lit up a little as he nodded emphatically. "Everyone knows Vincent."

"He's the best! But you already know that," Josie giggled. "He told us you were his friend. Do you know where he is?"

"I... haven't seen him around since Friday."

"Huh." Josie frowned. "We haven't, either. Normally, he comes to see us at least once every night."

Trying to avoid their eyes, Quinn rubbed at their elbows. They couldn't stand the way the two were looking at them, brown eyes big and full of trust, as if Quinn had the answers to anything. "I'll keep looking for him," they said, sounding more confident than they felt. "I'm sure he's around here somewhere."

"'Kay," Josie said. "Can you tell him to come see us if you find him?"

"I will," Quinn promised before they turned around, struggling to make it seem like they were walking at a calm pace instead of fully giving in to their flight reflex.

When they glanced over their shoulder once more, Josie and Caleb were walking back towards the art building, Caleb's hand clasped tightly in his sister's. His pajama pants were a little too big; as he walked, they dragged through the snow without ever actually getting wet. Quinn imagined him getting ready for bed, his mom helping him brush his teeth, pulling the Monster's Inc. t-shirt over his head, Don't worry, you'll grow into it. Except he didn't. Except he never would. 

Quinn barely made it to the bathroom on the second floor before they started dry heaving. They gripped onto the cold toilet bowl with trembling hands, forcing themself to breathe through the waves of nausea that crashed over them.

Finally, when their inhales got steadier and their heart stopped throwing itself against their ribs, Quinn got to their feet and stumbled over to the sink, letting the water run over their wrists. The biting cold of it felt good, felt real. Quinn kept the tab running and their gaze trained on the water as it wound around their fingers, strangely transfixed. They hadn't been to the lake in a few days. The water was so calming; its cool touch, its even melody. Quinn strained their ears, tried to pick up the words they knew they could find in the rush of it—

Only to hear something that sounded almost like a huff right next to their ear.

Quinn's blood froze in their veins when their head snapped up and they looked in the mirror. Right behind them stood the girl with red hair.

She met Quinn's eyes with a sneer that was all teeth. "Told you I'd find you."

The noise that left Quinn's mouth sounded barely human. Pressing a hand over their mouth, they squeezed their eyes shut. This couldn't be happening.

"Seriously?" The girl let out a laugh. The sound, humorless and raspy, made the hair on the back of Quinn's neck stand on end. "If I don't see it, it's not there? How old are you, ten?"

"Go away," Quinn whispered.

The words were almost inaudible over the noise of the tab still running, but the girl seemed to understand them just fine. "Look at me," she demanded.

Quinn mutely shook their head. Their fingers were gripping onto the edge of the sink hard enough to hurt, but they feared that if they let go, they would simply shake apart. The girl was standing close enough that Quinn could feel the cold emanating from her, chilling them all the way to the bone.

"Look at me," the girl said again, her voice growing louder with every word. "For fuck's sake, stop being such a fucking coward! I know you can see me, all right. I'm not just gonna leave you alone. I'll follow you everywhere if I have to. Do you hear me? I will haunt you day and night. I will make your life miserable—" 

"Joy? Are you in he—Oh, Jesus Christ."

On instinct, Quinn whirled around to see who had spoken, their back pressed against the edge of the sink. Standing by the door was a Chinese boy. He looked to be around Quinn's age, but more than that he looked... familiar. 

Quinn jumped when the girl spoke again. "Oh, so now you can look."

"Joy," the boy said again, crossing the small bathroom in a few long strides to place a hand on the girl's shoulder, pulling her away from Quinn. "Take a chill pill. You heard what Vincent said—"

The girl's—Joy's—expression only darkened, but she did finally take a step away from Quinn. "Yeah, I heard what he fucking said. He also heard me when I told him that I think it's goddamn stupid."

"I hear you, I hear you," the boy said, uncomfortably switching his weight from one foot onto the other. "But... let's maybe not talk about this here?"

"You mean, let's not talk about this in front of them?" Joy spat, gesturing sharply in Quinn's direction. "You and Vincent with your protective bullshit. I really don't see why we shouldn't involve them when they clearly have everything to do with this—"

The boy rubbed a hand over his eyes, his voice almost pleading as he said, "Joy."

"Jun," the girl shot back, imitating his tone.

For a few seconds, the two simply stood there, silently arguing—meanwhile, Quinn felt like the floor was tilting under their feet.

"Jun?" they echoed.

At that, both ghosts froze. Joy shot Jun a weighted glance. His voice was softer than it had been before when he looked at them and said, "Hi Quinn."

"You... you're my..."

Quinn could see his Adam's apple moving as he swallowed, hard. "Yeah."

"Family reunion," Joy said, quieter now. "How nice."

Quinn didn't look at her. Their eyes were fixed on Jun's face; the face that they'd seen on dozens of family photos, the face that their mother carried in her wallet, the number 1986 written on the back of the Polaroid in black Sharpie.

"How do you know who I am?" Quinn whispered.

Their uncle gave a small shrug, his voice trembling as he said, "You look so much like her. I knew from the moment you arrived here."

It was too much. All of it; the hopeful warmth in his eyes as he studied Quinn's face; the nervous fidgeting as he waited for an answer, so similar to their mother's when she was anxious; the fact that Jun Jiang, the ghost who had haunted Quinn's childhood, had finally come to haunt them in person.

"It's okay," Jun said as if reading their mind. His cheeks dimpled with a smile even as his eyes glistened with tears—and, fuck, even that felt like something Quinn's mom would do, right down to the soothing cadence of his voice. "I know it's a lot. That's why I didn't come to you sooner." He paused. "I just—I want you to know that I understand if you don't want to have anything to do with me. Honest."

Quinn had no idea what they wanted. They didn't even know if it mattered. Their dead teenage uncle was standing in front of them, plucked straight from the 80s, acid-washed denim jacket and all. How the hell was one supposed to react in this situation?

How the hell had they even gotten into this situation?

"I'm sorry," Quinn managed to choke out. "I don't—I can't do this right now."

Jun gave a nod, a gentle sort of understanding in the way he stepped away from the door to let Quinn through. They had half the mind to turn off the tab; in the heavy silence that followed, their own ragged breathing echoed loudly from the tiled walls, hitching a little as they pushed past Joy. To their surprise, she didn't glare, didn't utter a snarky comment—she simply buried her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket and watched Quinn go, her expression unreadable.

Quinn stumbled out into the corridor without another word, jumping when the door fell shut behind them. This time, they did flee, running as fast as they could, their heart pounding in their ears the entire way to their dorm room.

Their fingers were trembling so bad they almost dropped their keys trying to unlock the door, but somehow they managed to wrench it open.

It was as if stepping into another world. Valerie was there—had she said she was going to sleep here tonight?—and the lamp on her bedside table was on, a dim glow that contrasted the harsh fluorescent lights in the corridor. The air was warm, and sweet with some kind of herb that Valerie was burning on her nightstand. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, her hair pulled into a messy bun, her features softer without any make-up on. At the sound of the door opening, she looked up from the tarot cards spread out on the sheets in front of her, the expression on her face quickly morphing into concern.

"Quinn," she breathed, immediately getting to her feet. "What happened to you?"

Quinn opened their mouth, but there were no words there—only a sob, torn from all the way down in their chest.

Valerie looked taken aback for a second before she moved, grabbing onto Quinn's hand and pulling them down onto her bed, pushing the tarot cards off to the side. "Hey," she said, wrapping a soft blanket and then her arms around Quinn. "You're okay. Everything's okay."

Despite the heat rolling off of Valerie, Quinn still felt chilled all the way to the bone. It was as if Joy were still lingering right behind them, as if death itself was breathing down their neck. Quinn felt like they were never going to be warm again. "Nothing is okay," they whispered, too far gone to even care that they were crying in front of Valerie. "I can't do this anymore. Valerie, I'm s-so tired."

"Tired of what?" Valerie asked. Her fingers were carding through Quinn's hair in a way that was so gentle, so soothing, but somehow only made them cry even harder.

"Magick," Quinn hiccupped. "I just—it's so much, and I don't want it. I don't want any of this."

Valerie was quiet for a long moment. Finally, she asked, "Is it because of it's association with femininity?"

A hysterical laugh tore from Quinn' throat without their permission. "No, Valerie," they said before they could stop themself. "It's because everywhere I go, I see dead people. This entire town is a goddamn haunted house except there's no exit and I'm the only one they're fucking with."

The hand in their hair suddenly stilled. "What?"

"I can see ghosts," Quinn said without looking at Valerie.

"What do you mean, you can see them?" Valerie incredulously asked. "I thought—I thought you could only communicate with them when you held something they owned."

"I thought so, too," Quinn bitterly said.

The mattress dipped as Valerie shifted a little, turning so that her entire body was facing Quinn. When they dared to glance up, they found Valerie staring at them with a mix of disbelief and utter shock. "When did this start?"

"Around December. I... at first I thought it was just noises. And that was okay, for a while. But then I started seeing them and there's—God, Valerie, there's so many of them." Quinn tried to stop themself, but the words just kept pouring out of them, like some kind of dam had broken. "I've seen four of them just in the last two hours. There's my fucking dead uncle and this punk girl from the seventies who hates my guts and there's children—"

"And you've... talked to them?" Valerie asked. To her credit, she was taking this info dump in stride; while Quinn was babbling, she was listening intently, a concentrated furrow between her brows as she tried to follow.

Quinn looked down at their hands again. "The only one I've talked to is this boy from the 1930s. He's... I don't know. He's different."

"Different how?"

Quinn paused. How could they possibly explain what Vincent was like? How those nights with him felt? How could they put into words that looking at him felt like looking in a mirror when they couldn't even admit that to themself?

Their time with Vincent felt like it was something that wasn't meant to be grasped and dragged into the light—it was something nameless and vague, something that was only for them and the night to know.

"It doesn't matter," Quinn finally said. "All that matters is that all of this scares the hell out of me."

"I understand," Valerie murmured. "It must be... scary to be the only one who sees these things. To be the only one to have this ability."

Quinn's eyes suddenly stung with new tears. "At first, I thought I was losing my mind. That I was hallucinating. And now that I know that it's not a hallucination—that it's real—it's somehow even worse. Because I'm responsible for them now."

"What do you mean?"

Quinn drew the blanket tighter around themself. "They've been stuck here for decades, and for some reason they think that, because I can see them, I can help them."

"Do you think you can?"

"Of course I can't," Quinn whispered. "I don't know anything about this. And because I'm the only one who has these abilities, neither does anyone else."

"Hold up," Valerie said. "Have you told any of the Greenbrooks about this? I'm sure they have to know something—"

"No," Quinn said again, firmer this time. "I've already talked to Deloris. They'll just tell me to embrace my gifts and release my true self. But I don't want that. I don't want to embrace this and open this door even wider." They lifted a hand to rub at their nose. "I just want to go back to normal."

Valerie looked like she wanted to object, but in the end, she just nodded. "Okay. Just... know that you don't have to be alone in this."

Something about the way she said it made Quinn's chest feel tight. To get rid of the feeling, they pointed at the tarot cards still strewn across the bed and sniffled, "What were you doing here before I interrupted?"

"I was doing a reading about you, actually. To figure out how I could help you." Valerie's gaze drifted down to the cards again. "It's funny how there are certain tarot cards that pop up whenever I ask about someone I know. Rhia is the Queen of Pentacles. Tristan is The Fool. Deloris is The Hierophant. And with you..." Her slender fingers reached out to turn over one of the cards. "It's almost always the Eight of Swords."

Quinn's stomach lurched when their gaze caught on the image Valerie had revealed. It showed a person standing bound and blindfolded amid a half-circle of swords. Their skin itched at the thought that Valerie could simply look at their soul like this, and even more that this was what it looked like right now, lonely and trapped.

They weren't sure they wanted to know—still, they asked, "What does it mean?"

Valerie grimaced. "This is gonna sound harsh, but this is essentially the victim mentality card. See how the swords don't actually form a full circle?" She met Quinn's eyes again. "This person could probably free themself and get out of there if they wanted to. Maybe they've found a sort of comfort in staying where they are, but if they'd remove their blindfold, they'd realize that they do have choices. We always do."

"I didn't realize this was a therapy session," Quinn muttered.

"The cards said it, not me."

Despite themself—despite everything that had happened that night—Quinn couldn't help the small laugh that made it past their lips.

Valerie held their gaze for a few more moments before she glanced at her phone. "Uhm... I actually meant to sleep at Rhia's house today. I can totally stay here if you want me to, I just gotta know so I can tell her not to wait—"

"No," Quinn cut her off. "Go see her. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

Nodding, Quinn squared their shoulders. "Yeah. I'll try to sleep a little earlier today."

"Earlier, they say, as if it isn't already past twelve," Valerie snorted as she got to her feet.

"Sleep-deprived art student, remember?" Quinn said, gesturing at their face. "These dark circles don't form by themselves. I have to put in the work for this look."

"Mh. I heard that healthy-sleep-schedule-and-three-meals-a-day is also super in right now. Just for your consideration," Valerie said. She leaned down to press a kiss into Quinn's hair before she shrugged on her jacket and grabbed her keys from her nightstand. "Text me if anything comes up. Or if you want me to talk to one of the Greenbrooks about... you know, everything."

Quinn nodded. A moment later, the door clicked shut behind Valerie and they were left alone once again. They felt steadier now, less like they were going to shake apart any second. They also felt exhausted, to the point where simply curling up on Valerie's bed seemed tempting.

In the end, they somehow managed to get up and go through the motions of changing. When they got into bed this time, they were so tired their eyes immediately drifted shut...

Only to abruptly fly open when there was a faint knock at the door.

Scrambling to sit up, Quinn ran through the options of who could possibly be out there at this time. Valerie had a key, which Quinn had seen her take with her. Joy and Jun hadn't cared about doors (or physics) earlier and simply stepped right through the walls. And other than their best friend and the ghosts haunting them, Quinn, as depressing as it sounded, didn't have a single person who would seek them out at any time of day, much less in the middle of the night.

In the end, their curiosity won over their fear. With their bare feet almost soundless on the cold linoleum, they made their way towards the door, pressing their ear against it as they asked, "Who's there?"

"Vincent," a muffled voice sounded before adding, "Uh, Baker. Vincent Baker."

Quinn was so relieved they could have cried. Throwing the door open, they found Vincent standing in the corridor, his fingers nervously fidgeting with his suspenders. "I know who you are, idiot," they sniffled. "And why on earth are you knocking? Can't you just come inside?"

"I mean... I could, but that seems a bit rude," Vincent said, scratching at his neck.

With another wet chuckle, Quinn motioned for him to enter and closed the door behind them. Leaning against it, they watched Vincent as he drifted around the room, taking in his surroundings. There was something disorienting about seeing his fingers hovering over half-finished sketches on Quinn's desk, his form backlit by the lamp on their bedside table.

It was strange, how much more silent a room could feel when two people were in it instead of one.

Predictably, Quinn was the first one to break the quiet. "You managed to knock."

Vincent turned around to offer them a lopsided smile. "It did take me three tries," he admitted. "And it's mostly because I went over forty-eight hours without being corporeal, I think."

"Why did you suddenly disappear?" Quinn softly asked.

"I don't know. I haven't been ho—I haven't been back there since the thirties. Other parts of the town, but never there. At first, because I was in that post-mortem daze where I didn't..." He broke off, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. Quinn didn't know why they were still surprised by how human the gesture felt. "It's hard to explain. For the first few years, I had no idea who I was, much less what I was. I was conscious, but I didn't think or want or feel anything. It was like..."

"Like you were in shock," Quinn quietly said.

Vincent nodded. "Yeah. I think my soul needed a while to realize that this—" He gestured down at himself, "Is what I am now." He shook his head. "Anyways. Once I did come to, I was terrified to go back there. I hated the idea that I would go home and my father and sister would be gone—or worse, that they were there but they would just look straight through me. So I never went. I guess, in my mind, I kind of thought that things would still be the same and so when I saw that the house was just gone—It was a lot."

Quinn nodded, but they weren't really listening anymore, still stuck on his earlier sentence. That they were there but they would just look straight through me. The idea was terrifying; seeing your loved ones without ever getting through to them, like you were stuck behind a two-way mirror, close but at the same time far removed.

Vincent had been stuck behind this mirror for almost a hundred years.

"Hey," his soft voice cut through Quinn's thoughts. When they looked up again, he was suddenly standing only an arms-length away. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

Quinn reached up to find their cheeks wet with tears for the second time that night. "I'm sorry." They wiped them away with their sleeve, struggling to control their breathing. The last thing they needed was to start sobbing in front of Vincent, too. "It's just all been—Earlier, there was—"

"I know," Vincent said. "Jun told me."

Quinn suddenly felt so tired. Like a marionette with its strings cut, they sank onto their bed again. It was messy from when they'd tried to sleep earlier. They felt messy too, their face a mix of dried and fresh tears, their lip bitten raw.

Vincent didn't look at them like he noticed any of that though. His expression was clouded with worry, his hands fidgeting at his sides as he debated something. Finally, he sat down on the edge of the bed next to Quinn and said, "I'm really sorry."

"Why?" Quinn asked. "None of it had anything to do with you."

"Yes, it did. I should've known that Joy would do something like this." He ran a hand over his face. "I did tell her to leave you alone—I told all of them—but... maybe not firmly enough. I don't know."

"What do they want?"

"What everybody wants," he said. "To feel seen."

Of course they did. Vincent wasn't the only one stuck behind a two-way mirror. Quinn was the first crack in the glass, the one thing that connected the space they were trapped in to the world they could see but not reach. Why wouldn't they try to talk to them? And who was Quinn to deny them that?

Selfish, a little voice in the back of their head murmured.

"It's not your responsibility to talk to them," Vincent said as if reading their mind. "You're not the reason we're stuck here. You deserve to live your life without constant interference." He paused, grimacing. "Especially when that interference is Joy."

Quinn didn't respond. Their tongue felt heavy; everything about their body felt heavy.

"You look tired," Vincent said, soundlessly getting to his feet. "I'll leave you alone so you can get some sleep."

"Wait," Quinn said without thinking, immediately making him stop in his tracks. "I mean... Can you—Would you like to stay?"

Vincent's eyes widened as he understood. "Are you sure?"

Quinn nodded. Suddenly, and with an overwhelming sense of anxiety, they knew that they had lied to themself and to Valerie earlier: they didn't want to spend the night alone. "Please?"

After a brief moment of hesitation, Vincent soundlessly moved towards the chair by Quinn's desk. "I'll be right he—"

"You can... also come up here," Quinn said. "If you want."

Under different circumstances, they would have been ashamed of sounding so frightened, so needy, but the truth was that they were. There was something desperate trapped in their chest, something that had been trying to claw its way out for weeks now, something that ached. The only time it settled down was when they were with Vincent.

What everybody wants. To feel seen.

I see you.

I see you.

I see you.

"Okay," Vincent quietly said.

Exhaling, Quinn shuffled back in their bed, until they were lying on their side with their back pressed against the wall, the blanket pulled up to their chin. Vincent was slower to settle down, his movements almost a little nervous as he lay down on top of the covers. His face was only a few inches away from Quinn's; in the dim light of their bedside lamp, they could see every scar on his face, every freckle, every mark left by a life unfinished. Their fingers itched to reach out, to brush the hair out of his eyes, but they knew that all they would have grasped was air.

How strange it was, to be so close to someone you couldn't touch. And how strange that, even so, his mere presence was enough to calm their breathing when a week ago all they'd felt was fear.

Quinn curled their hand to their chest. "Are you comfy like this or do you need anything?"

"As comfortable as you can be when you're trapped in a liminal space between life and death with no physical body," Vincent responded, but there was an amused lilt to his words, a lopsided grin on his face that, despite everything, made Quinn smile.

"No extra blanket for you then, got it."

Vincent laughed softly before turning his gaze to the ceiling, his fingers tapping an uneven beat on his chest. "It's strange. I don't need anything anymore, but I want so much. Sometimes I feel like wanting is all I'm made of. Like yearning is the fabric of my entire being."

Quinn knew that feeling. Studying him, they asked, "What do you want the most?"

Vincent's throat worked as he swallowed. "To see my mom and sister again."

"What was your sister's name?"

"Rose." Something in Quinn's chest ached at the way he said the word, his tone so sweet, the vowels saturated with a warmth that not even death had managed to dull. "I used to call her Rosie though. It drove her up the wall when she got older. Said I wasn't taking her seriously and that I was to address her like a lady."

"She sounds like she had a temper."

"Oh, she did." Vincent was silent for a moment, his features soft at the memory.

"Do ghosts sleep?" Quinn asked after a few beats.

Vincent's quiet laugh was muffled against his arm. "No."

"Oh. Do you miss it?"

"I miss dreaming," Vincent said, hushed like a confession. "My family and I had this game—every morning at breakfast my mom would make Rose and I tell her what we'd dreamt the night before. Whoever had the most interesting dream would win. My mom always said that this world isn't kind to dreamers, so we must hold onto as many as we can. The bolder, the better." He broke off. "I stopped trying to remember them after she was gone. My father wasn't one for dreams."

Quinn was silent for a moment before they whispered, "It must be hard, never having a break from existing. I can't imagine being awake for every single moment, for all of eternity."

"Better go to sleep, then." Vincent rested his cheek on his arm. "I'll try to stay as long as possible. And I'll close my eyes. So it's not so strange for you."

"Thank you," Quinn said, the hint of a smile hidden against their pillow as they finally allowed their own eyes to drift shut. Somehow, none of it felt strange at all. "Good night, Vincent."

"Good night," he whispered, and then, almost too quiet to hear, "Dream a dream for me."