There's memory in his closet.
It hangs heavily, a silken mass of red and white, and he catches the familiar material between his fingers, its texture like cool water.
He touches.
Traces.
Reacquaints.
Indigo and yellow slip from a hanger, falling onto his wrist, and a small pointer finger reaches out to touch.
"You should wear it," the wraith says.
Eyes sliding to his right, he refuses to look past the ponytail that sticks off the side of her head.
"Wear it." A bright, toothless grin flashes up at him. "And this too."
Thick fur tumbles out of the closet.