It's been twelve days and finally he can see him, pale as a ghost. His eyes, through the window, are huge and then he's gone. The man in the white coat waits for another ten minutes, checking his watch at five, then walks on.
He is back the next night. He leaves a bag of penny candy on the lawn and walks away.
The next night the candy is gone.
It goes like this for another week, a slow, solemn courtship of Indian dimes, a bag of marbles, an old arrowhead. They all disappear without reward, except for the occasional fluttering of a curtain or the creak of an old wooden board.
"We're both ghosts," the doctor says to the air, but no one answers and he smiles and walks on.
The next night the door creaks open, but no one emerges. The doctor puts a wooden toy soldier on the ground, paint chipped and musket worn. He gives it one reverent caress before letting it fall to the ground.
Two more days and there is a pinecone in the place where one of those little offerings was. He picks it up, caresses it and takes it home with him, settling it as the centerpiece of the hotel room table where he is staying.
The next and final night, Boo stands out on the lawn, a few inches from the door. The doctor paces slowly forward. "Hello, Boo Radley," he says softly, his long, pale fingers scything the air so close to Boo's face he flinches. The doctor's hand settles on his shoulder. "It's so nice to finally meet you."
Boo smiles and the blade slides effortlessly into his chest, meeting little resistance. His smile falters, but doesn't disappear completely as he falls, his body hitting the ground and spasming once before going still. His fingers uncurl and the wooden soldier drops into the grass. Muraki kneels and his lips brush over the still figures, his smile at once fierce and sad.
"Beautiful ghost," he whispers and rises, turning away from the mess on the ground, the heel of his shoe snapping the toy soldier as he walks on.