I keep passing my hand through walls, trying to make myself believe it. But I don't. Never heard of a ghost of a vampire before. Never particularly thought about life after unlife. If I had, I would've checked the box next to "No, Thanks." I'm getting real sick of immortality.

Turns out it wasn't my soul that was burning down in the Hellmouth. It was this bloody amulet doing its thing, whatever thing that is. There I was, enjoying the irony of saving the world while you ran off, feeling my flesh disintegrate—not as unpleasant as I'd imagined it would be, but maybe that's the irony talking—and suddenly, WOOSH! I'm face-to-face with the grandsire. Last time I'd laid eyes on him, he was snogging you, and vice versa, so you can guess how pleased I was to see him again.

Naturally, first thing I thought of was you. All right, the first thing I thought of was how much I wanted to shove his shocked face down his throat. But you were a really close second. Suppose you're wondering why, if that's true, it's taken so long for me to let you know I'd come back to the land of the...Undead.

Well, it's not like I haven't tried. But I don't think Angel-face has been taking pains to deliver my messages. He's really shook up over how he's not the only vampire who's ever been given his soul back. Hate to think how he'd react if I told him there have been others.

Not that I know there have been, but it seems statistically probable. And would I ever love to see the look on his face….

He seems to be especially angry that he took so long to come to grips with his soul, whereas I asked for one and got used to it pretty quickly. Personally, I don't see what there is to make such a big mystery out of. The difference is obvious enough to me: he didn't have you. Then. Now….

But you're not interested in what I think of Angel. You're a big girl. Able to make up your own mind and all that. I'm trying to help you make up your mind about me, in the desperate way unrequited lovers have of pretending the object of one's affection hasn't made up her mind already. Even if the ponce gets you in the end, I'd still like to be on speaking terms, which is bloody difficult when your hand goes through walls but not through the sodding building.

It's a long story. I hope to explain it to you in person someday. The point is that I can't leave this place, and I can't pick up a phone. Or a pen. Or anything. Which brings me to the humiliating admission that I'm dictating this letter. Bird by the name of Fred's taken a shine to me. Sweet thing, in her own way. Quite the siren around here, actually, but don't worry. My heart—sod it, the heart I'm twice removed from—it's still yours.

I can just about hear your eyes rolling from here.

I miss you. I doubt you return the favor.

No. You know what's the worst part? It's the part where I'm all alone, and the offices are quiet, and I get to thinking about what you said to me down there, and wondering if maybe it wasn't true after all. Yeah. I know. A ruddy fool, trying to convince himself of something that's not there. Or is it? You see my dilemma. I believe one thing with my head and another with my heart, that's all.

And now I'm a ruddy fool psychoanalyzing himself. Brilliant.

I probably shouldn't even be telling you this at all. In fact, it would probably be easier for you if you kept thinking I was dead. Which…technically,  yeah, I am. But the point is, I'm probably only proving how shabby I am at this true love song and dance. It's  just that I miss you so much I….

The undead version of the undead shouldn't still be missing people.

Bollocks.

Better quit while I'm still coherent, and before Fred starts soaking the paper with saltwater. If you're ever in the area, visiting Angel or whatnot, I hope you manage to spare a glance, maybe even a word or two, for your old whatever-it-is-I-was Spike.

I'm not going anywhere for a while.