Spring.
What an odd feeling that word made, rattling around in his head.
Spring.
Spring was here again.
And it had been here for a while, now.
The distant rustling of fallen leaves and the icy crunch of snow had long given way to the soft, dew-strewn swish of healthy, growing grass.
The smell of crisp, bitter wind had long since passed, the breeze now heavy with weight of oncoming rain and the scent of blossoming flowers.
Flowers.
What an odd thing it was to be sitting here, in his garden, seeing flowers.
There weren't many, but there were enough.
Enough to make the little floral wire fences he'd made by hand, the little cordoned off attempts at flowerbeds, the garden tiles he'd set into the dry, ashen soil almost have a purpose.
Almost.
After all, he didn't physically go out into the garden much, and he didn't touch the flowers now, either. He was so afraid to touch, disturb any of it now that it seemed almost stable, almost "real," in a sense.
He was worried he'd ruin it.
He'd planted flowers, and not all of them had died. Most of them had, yes, but a few had survived in this place, in his garden, in his presence.
That was nice.
Mallew reclined back in his chair, his teacup gently clinking on the iron garden table he'd installed not too long ago. He wondered if the cashier at the hardware store on the edge of town was starting to recognize him now. He'd been in a few times now in the last few months, but only towards the edge of night, when he felt most safe.
Say what one will of him, but Mallew knew what he was, at the end of the day, and what he could and couldn't do...
And he wasn't planning on pushing his luck being amongst people again.
Still, he had found himself outside more, and he watched over his modest, patchy garden with something resembling contentment.
His cats darted between the small plots and sparce flowerbeds, chasing after bugs and the shifting shadows of the windswept trees overhead, Mallew letting out a low sigh.
He looked down at his hands, then closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his body against the metal and wood.
The last few months had been strange: he had gotten a better sense of time, although it still slipped from him often. He was good at tracking weeks now, and feeding and tending to the cats and the garden had helped him with that on a daily basis.
He was sleeping more regularly now, although he still remained more nocturnal than anything else. He was beginning to prefer his bed over his coffin, and he felt the need to eat and drink more and more...
As revolting as that was to him.
His brow furrowed as he leaned against his chair, feeling it push back against him, tilt slightly back with his weight. His physical form had been getting heavier, oddly: floating didn't come as easily now, nor did phasing through things.
His claws were not as pronounced anymore either, and it had taken time for him to get used to how that changed how he touched and interacted with things.
He'd caught a few glimpses of himself in the mirror from time to time, always startling at the sight, not exactly recognizing himself right away with all the small, yet present changes that had happened to him.
He had dreaded it when it began, but now...
He let out a deep sigh, a few wisps of magenta flame escaping from the corner of his eyes, accompanies now by a few sizzling drops of black ectoplasm, which he swept away lazily with one hand.
He was changing. Against his will.
His form and his behavior were running away from him, pushing him further and further towards an endpoint he didn't know, and which each twisting turn, each new development taking more and more out of him, filling him with deeper and deeper fear, dread, and disgust...
He had almost accepted it, at this point.
And that was what scared him the most.
