The funeral had ended in the rain, and, as everyone scattered to the reception, one person remained. It was like the crowds parted and she stood in the middle, and before he could cross-over, Mouna approached Cris with her hands out, palms up. She said nothing, she look straight into his eyes how she always did. When their hands touched, it wasn't how it was when they still had their flesh, but pure energy formed between the two ghosts.
As there hands met, a kind of peace that Cris’ spirit had not been able to find during the morbid proceedings of his own funeral began to settle over him. So many living had stood vigil and wept, but their number had been dwarfed by the legion of the dead that had stood with him. Sledge, his mother, and Marten, and countless other shades of fallen comrades, but they had parted just as the living had until she was there, and it was her, his partner, who’s hands guided him to the Mists and he at last knew peace.