Tate was frightened. Frightened of himself, of Violet. He avoided her on return to the house, after checking that she'd gotten to bed alright – watched her fitful sleep for a while, before slipping out again as she woke. What must she think of him? What would she say when she saw him next? Hating his own cowardice, he nevertheless remained in the basement, terrified of what she'd do, the way she'd look at him now that she'd had time to calm down and rethink all that had happened.

And what had happened? Tate sat on the floor of the dim basement for hours, trying to piece together what they had said to him. They had obviously been ghosts; so animated with their murderous rage that they'd seemed like living humans to him until the end. And they knew details about him – his name, which school he'd gone to, that he'd run track when he was there. They apparently knew that the mansion had belonged to his mother when he was alive. They didn't know Violet, so they hadn't seen her at school. The girl had said she'd be 34 by now – that would have put her in school at the same time that he'd been there, around the time that he died. He couldn't remember them, but that was unsurprising. He'd taken about as much notice of his classmates as they had him.

His head hurt with so many unanswered questions and conflicting memories. He knew Violet had left the house, and took the chance to step back into her room. Just the presence of her familiar things, the lilac scent of her shampoo still lingering on the sheets, was a comfort. He lay on her bed for a while, ran his fingers gently over the things on her desk. Her ipod interested him – he'd seen her use it before, and for a while he played with the strange buttons until he worked out how to play the songs that he liked.

His guilt for not coming to see her came back in full force. She had been so frightened – the last time she'd seen him, he was running for his life from five angry teenagers. He wanted to do something for her, but at this point his clumsy words seemed a paltry gift after all he'd inadvertently put her through.

Tate studied the blackboard for a while, then picked up the chalk and slowly, deliberately, wrote what he'd been struggling to say for weeks.

The front door opened downstairs, and dropping the chalk he disappeared from the room, the forgotten music still playing.

He walked through the house quietly. The other ghosts had all disappeared somewhere; probably moping at the fact that there was another year to go before they could escape the house again. He didn't want to go back, although for a while he toyed with the idea of sneaking into her room once more and rubbing his message off the wall. He didn't quite know what he'd do if she threw his words back in his face. Had she seen it yet? Was she thinking of him right at that moment?

At last he couldn't bear it any longer, and crossing to her hallway, Tate knocked softly on the door.

There was no answer, which Tate thought was odd. He'd heard her run up the stairs to her room some time earlier. Perhaps her headphones were in. He turned the handle and pushed the door open a little.

She was asleep on the bed, and he let out a little sigh of relief that the dreaded conversation could wait a little longer. She was so little when she slept, her small body curled around a pillow, her hair fanning out above her. Watching her sleep always had such a calming effect.

He moved to sit at his favorite armchair, but something caught his eye. An empty pill bottle lay by Violet's head, its lid beside it. Violet didn't take any medicine that he knew of.

Tate's heart dropped. "Violet," he said softly, reaching out and patting her leg. She didn't move. "Violet?" he grabbed her shoulder and shook it roughly. "Violet, stop it, wake up." Her head rolled back, mouth open. Her eyes remained shut.

He reeled, snatching up her wrist and feeling for a pulse. Her hands were cold.

Tate grabbed her around the waist and lifted her over his shoulder. Her dead human weight was too heavy for him; he carried her to the floor, and hurriedly spread out his jumper beneath her. He could hear himself sobbing, dimly realized that he was screaming out her name, but he clung to the detached self that allowed him to move quickly, to drag her out into the hall by his sweater, down the hallway into the bathroom.

"DON'T YOU DIE ON ME, VIOLET, DON'T YOU DIE," his own broken yell cut through the haze in front of his eyes, and suddenly he was vividly aware of the situation around him. He couldn't let her go like this – it was too cruel, the irony of their mirrored deaths too impossibly painful to stand. He pulled Violet after him into the bathtub, frantically turning the faucet on. Cold water rained down on them, and he forced his fingers between her clenched teeth, desperate to make her vomit up the pills. Her body was limp, cold. He shook her fiercely, hitting her back with the palm of his hand, attempting to make her vomit again.

"Tate, stop. TATE." He flung off the hand at his shoulder, still screaming Violet's name. He struggled to see through his tears.

Arms went around his own, grabbing his wrists firmly and holding him still. Tate resisted for a second more, and then crumpled, Violet's body still leaning against him

Moira held him tightly, one hand still holding his own as it clutched Violet's lifeless form, the other stroking his hair.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Moira's voice broke, and for a few minutes she said nothing. The only sounds in the bathroom were the still-running water and Tate's agonized cries, slowly softening into a whisper.

Finally Moira pulled back, stepping around the bathtub so Tate could see her.

"Listen to me. Tate, listen. In a few minutes she's going to come back. Her body can't be here, the shock of it could drive her mad."

Tate buried his face in Violet's hair, but Moira pulled him back insistently.

"I can't, I can't," he sobbed.

"I'll do it, but you have to let her go. I have to move her. Let go, Tate. She's going to be right there in just a few moments. Give her body to me."

Tate forced himself to listen, to pull his hands from around Violet. He reached forward, kissing her wet hair desperately, still calling out her name. Others appeared; Tate couldn't register faces, only that together they lifted his Violet away from him, carried her limp body out the door and left him alone.

He waited.

He heard a groan, and felt the weight of her once again on his legs. She still lay limply, but now he could feel the movement of her nerves, the life in her skin. He reached for her mouth again, forcing her to retch. This time, her body responded; jerking upright, Violet gagged violently. Tate stroked her wet hair, and she turned to him, her face bewildered. She gave a little gasping sob, her cries turning into a high, keening sound. Tate pulled her closer, held her in his arms as tightly as he could, kissing her head, her neck, drinking in the scent of her once more.

How long they sat together, as the water collected around them and drenched through their clothes, he would never know. He only knew that the light around them changed, and that, after a long time, Violet fell asleep, her eyes still raw from crying.

He switched off the tap and pulled her from the tub. She weighed nothing, now, and he carried her back to her room, pulling off her wet things. Softly, so as not to wake her, he dried her off, toweling her damp hair until it lay in little waves around her head. He dressed her in the oversized sweatshirt she wore to bed and pulled the covers over her like a child. She sighed deeply, and rolled over onto the pillows, nestled between the blankets.

He watched her for a few moments more before forcing himself to leave. He had to see that the others had taken care of everything.

Moira was waiting for him downstairs. "How is she?" she asked gently, reaching forward and taking his hands.

Tate's throat rasped when he spoke. "Asleep. She doesn't know."

Moira nodded. "It may be best, given the nature of her…passing…that she doesn't find out, at least for a while. She's too unstable at this moment to handle it, I believe."

Tate nodded, swallowing hard to fight off the images that swarmed at the back of his mind. He would deal with them later, when he was alone.

"We've hidden the body in the crawl space beneath the house. The others agreed that it would be best to let you decide where you wanted her buried, when you were ready. The others…they send their condolences." She added.

"Will you thank them for me?"

"Of course. And, Tate-" her voice grew sadder, and he saw tears in her eyes. "I'm so sorry that this happened. You did everything you could. I'm proud of you."

"I told her that I loved her," said Tate blankly. "I told her that I loved her on a chalkboard, and she killed herself."

Moira's eyes widened. "Tate. No. You can't think like that, of course not. Violet – she had a lot of things going wrong. Things you couldn't have known about or helped. Her parents, leaving behind her life in Boston, trouble at school. If anything, you were the one bright star in this world for her. I saw how happy she was with you."

Tate dropped his head into his hands. "Then why did she leave me? She was willing to leave me, to leave her whole life. She didn't even say goodbye. She doesn't…she doesn't love me like I love her. And now she'll spend forever in this house, not loving me. How can I live with that, every day?"

Moira shook him firmly. "You don't know that. You don't know anything for certain, and you won't until you speak to her, find out what was going through her mind. She was a child, she made a foolish mistake. Go to her. Be there for her as she transitions. When you think she's ready, talk to her."

She pushed him gently, and he staggered backward, appearing in Violet's room where she lay as he had left her. He wanted to go to her with every fiber of his being, but made himself walk to the armchair instead, to wait for her to rise.

~:~:~

Violet was reclusive in the days that followed. She was absent, her mind scattered – any attempts Tate made to speak to her were soon forgotten, and he took to following her through the house, watching that she didn't get into any trouble. He stood by as she struggled with the nausea and sickness as the last of her soul separated from her decaying body. She often wandered the house, seeming oblivious to the walls she walked through or the way that time passed by in great leaps whenever she wasn't paying attention. Sometimes he would hold her, and she would allow it, but soon he would feel her pulling away, to wander again in the lost halls.

As the sickness abated she took to reading books on her bed, and the drifting ceased. She woke and went to sleep in her old routine, made small efforts to speak to her parents, to attend meals and get dressed each day.

Tate waited until at last her gaze lost its absent sheen, and the Violet he knew returned to her own mind. He found her on he bed flipping through a book that he faintly remembered reading, and in a moment he was visible again.

"I like birds too," he said softly.

She looked up at him slowly. "Why do you like them?"

"Cause they can fly away when things get too crazy, I guess," he said, attempting a smile. She didn't move, and Tate braced himself. "Are you going to tell your parents? About the pills?"

"No," she said. "I've been sleeping a lot. They think I'm depressed."

"Are you?" he asked. If she could remember, on her own, now that she'd had time to adapt to her new reality, it might be easier on her mind.

"I'm sad."

"Me too." He took a deep breath. "Violet," he said, hating the tears that came so readily to his eyes these days, "something's changed in you, towards me. You're distant, cold. I don't know what I've done, but… I'll leave you alone from now on, if that's what you want. Is that what you want?"

Tate held his breath, but she didn't reply. Her face was unreadable, and he continued desperately, suddenly frightened that she'd interrupt without his ever getting a chance to explain.

"You know why I'd leave you alone? 'Cause I care about your feelings more than mine. I love you." He bit his lip, but couldn't risk stopping now. "There, I said it. And not just on some chalkboard. I would never let anybody, or anything hurt you. I've never felt that way about anyone."

He waited, and for a horrible moment felt sure that she'd turn away, or tell him to leave. Her face softened momentarily, and for a flash he saw the girl that he knew.

"Come here," she said, moving over on the bed.

Hardly daring to hope, Tate crept forward, pulling himself over the bedframe and to her side. She reached for his hand, and he held it tightly, entwining his fingers with her own. She pulled him in against her, and the scent of her hair, the feeling of her warm breath on his cheek – he let her comfort him with her presence, the feeling of her enough to fight away the darkness for just a little longer.

"I'm tired," Tate whispered.

"Me too," said Violet.

He fell asleep in her arms.