A girl named Pandora was born in ‘96. She was born to one mortal woman, and one fairy woman.
Nevermind the specifics of the agreement - the sidhe girl wanted to die and I, for want of a body, obliged her in this regard.
I am, as of now, this body’s only living resident. However, I am even still burdened by the ghost of the girl, whose corpse hangs on my back, a silent weight.
This body, like a house after a plague, is littered with the remnants of her. I do not share her memories, but rather find her journals, her photographs, her files - these are the precious grave goods left to prove that she was once a living thing.
Now like a parasite I move the carcass of the sidhe girl through a life of my own design, to my own benefit. And I do not regret killing her.