#bgrl

"So, do you like-" She pauses in thought- "mope on the roof a lot?"

"In a sense," says Morris.

"What does that even mean?" Mae Borowski asks, puzzled.

"…"

Two cats sit by the edge of an apartment building, gazing at nothing in particular. The sun had just set on Possum Springs, with the orange glow barely peeking from the hillside. Faint ghosts of stars coalesce in a dark fabric.

If they wait long enough, they could see the star sign of Mundy appear soon, Mae notes. Judging by how slow this conversation's going, it would be in no time at all.

"What are you doing here anyway?" she questions, "in Possum Springs I mean."

"Do you want a metaphorical answer, or literal?"

"Ok, can you like, stop with the vague shit you've got going on here?!" Her volume raises to the first floor. "Literal, I guess."

"Mhm. I came here because…" The pitch-black cat takes a while to answer. "Just because."

"Like, saving money and stuff?"

"Just because," he repeats, "or at least, Mallory had wanted to."

"The sheep?" She remembers Gregg mentioning that Morris had a partner who moved with him. She hasn't seen them yet, since they worked in mornings. Some short-stack like her, yeah.

"Yes, that pest of a lamb." Though monotone, it was spoken with an endearment she thought impossible from him. "They… had some work to do here in town. I was only along for the ride."

"Huh, I can't imagine moving just to work somewhere at all. Much less for someone else. The only places I've ever been were here and college. Also maybe that road trip with my parents that one time."

"Mmm." He breathes out a mist of cold. "And how is college faring for you?"

"Dropped out." She blurts out without thinking. Straight for the throat, goddamn it.

"I see."

God, this sucks.

Right now, all she wants is to leave this asshole be for the night, but this might be her ace-in-the-hole for her ghost investigation. Germ said he saw him lingering out by the chain-link fence every now and then, looking towards the trees. Just gazing for a few minutes before returning home.

Eyewitness. That's the word. She needs an eyewitness to confirm her encounter. She could prove that it wasn't some dream she had.

If only this fucker doesn't keep on refusing to answer her questions.

"So…" She taps rhythmically on the pavement. "You see any… ghosts?"

"I see them all the time." He takes out a cigarette and lighter from his pockets, filling the air with that cigar smell that Bea carries around with her all the time. He offers her a stick, which she refuses. "In life and in death."

"Uh." She waves away the smoke that's trying to enter her nose.

"Ghosts that have no business pestering the living world, always haunting some forgotten crevice of society. Never alive, nor really dead. Those kinds of ghosts."

He takes in the first breath of smoke. It dances, glittering in the dying sunlight.

"Um," she tries to interrupt.

"Though one dies, there's an imprint left in the dredges on the separating line. A true purgatory where the soul leaves, yet a body remains alive, operating as you would a machine. The world's grey area is dissolving, tainting the extremes with traces of one another."

His voice trembles slightly.

"It disgusts me, how they could never pass on with peace. Sure, they could return alive or dead, but it is in that middle ground, where agony could be your only drug for existence. Could you imagine that, living with a husk of your former self?"

He doesn't even notice her in his periphery, only looking towards the horizon where the stars faintly glow. His cigarette bends from his grip.

"Can I..?"

"Oh, sorry." He seems to snap out of his spiel, returning to the present. "What were you saying?"

"I mean, uh… I mean a literal ghost," she fiddles with her thumb before confirming, "like, 'phase through walls' type of ghost. Specters, or some shit."

He raises an eyebrow at that statement.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I mean, ghost!" She blurts out, "A, um, guy who can pass through walls, and kidnapped a kid or something?"

"Kidnapped?" His eyes open in alarm.

"Yeah, last Harfest."

"…" He takes a drag out of his stick. "So I was right."

"What do you mean, right?"

He lets the cigarette burn for a bit, before speaking once more.

"Thank you for telling me this, Miss Borowski." He snuffs the flame from under his boot. "But for your own safety, I suggest you sit this one out."

He turns to leave through the rooftop door.

"Wh- Hey!" She calls out from the edge, "At least give me an answer, asshole! Fuck you!"

He gives her the finger as he disappears into the apartment building, which she gives back in earnest. An old reliable insult.

She lies on the floor of the roof, despondent. Can't anyone tell her what the hell's going on?

"Raaagh!" She pulls her hair in frustration. "How does he even know my name!?"

The night sky looks cloudy and pale, with scattered rays of moonlight illuminating the sparsely populated streets. A handful of rats jump out of the window where Mallard P. Bloomingro rests in peace. A wonderful, not so scary night.