He was a ghost parading as a human being.
Of course, sometimes he felt he was walking the line. Sometimes, he felt mirrors would crack if he looked hard enough. He would be dead if only his hair was a little whiter, if only his skin was a little sallower, if only his eyes were a little more bloodshot.
He couldn't remember if her eyes were brown or blue.
He couldn't remember which 'her' he was thinking of.
Not like he ever wanted to forget. Never. Wading into his past like water (or mud), he tried to remember the curtain-like pattern of her eyelashes. The number of freckles on her right cheek. The way her breath smelled at dawn.
Some things he did remember. Today, Johanna was sixteen years, five months, and seventeen days old (and Anthony loved her).
How old was Lucy?
She was an angel now. Hell, she had always been an angel. But she had a white gown and golden wings now. Maybe, if he listened hard enough, he could hear her speaking or singing or laughing or screaming.
But he couldn't hear her tapping on the window.
She was a human being parading as a ghost.