How long I have known you, Hanna, I can't recall now. All I know is that I cherish with gentle-hearted fondness the day I met you. And, honestly, I don't mind knowing about my life as long as I have you with me. I feel for you like a best friend, and I can certainly say that sometimes, with you, I forget that I was ever green, much at least until someone would comment on my green skin and I would then again come up with some excuse to why I am green, the answer of which was usually dependent on the season; "Oh, I'm in a band - zombies are our gimmick," or "I'm part of a haunted house act," or "I'm in a Nightmare Before Christmas type play, and, of course, I play a zombie," or things among the sort that would make sense to the general bystander.

Aside, I don't honestly know about my past life when I was legitimately alive, but I don't care to know any more, nor am I sure that I ever was interested in finding out given the deep holes in my dead flesh and slices of spare, far-gone memories of my murder. I'm sure that from then and now I'm a different man, and I'm even more sure that, what with my murder, I never want to be that man again. You have made me feel more alive than I'm sure I ever felt, and with that alone I'm content.

Everyday now you used to make me two or so paper cranes; usually you made one when you woke up and one when you went to sleep. Sometimes, when we don't have anything to do, we'll paint them and color them and play with them. And you number each one, just so we know sometimes. I can remember a few in specific that were particularly interesting. For example, at seven hundred, you were talking to me at the time that you were writing the number, and, for whatever reason during your distraction, you wrote the number seven-hundred backwards. Once you noticed, you laughed out loud, realizing you had written '007.' You then proceeded to draw on the crane a tuxedo, claiming it was James Bond, and he'd steal away all the "girl cranes" into romance from the "evil cranes." Another was six-hundred and sixty-six, which, for good measure, you made at the end of the night before you went to go to bed, and you made me go up to the rooftop with you and build a small fire to burn the crane. I remember you told me afterward that it would still count as part of the one-thousand even though we'd burned it to beyond a crisp.

Many weeks ago, when you woke up, you looked up at me expectantly as you expertly folded a crane, which you then numbered with a silver Sharpie as "no. 999." You held it in your palm once you were done up high, beaming up at it, and I was sure that I felt my stomach set aflame with some kind of emotion I couldn't quite place, but it felt so good to be alive in any sense of the word right then that I still can't even care to name it. But then your face fell as you studied the crane.

That night, you didn't make another paper crane.

It really had been many weeks since then, and from then until this point, you haven't touched another piece of origami paper, and I could never quite say why. Number nine-hundred and ninety-nine sat on the shelf with the others, untouched. I don't remember exactly how many weeks ago that was, but I can't exactly care too much to recall.

"Hey, Fyodor," You say and I look up at you, which makes you smile. "Wanna go out tonight?"

"Where would we go?"

Your kind smile widens and you hold your hands behind your back as you walk along the sidewalk. "It'll be a surprise, okay?"

I can't help but smile at the back of your head, knowing you won't see me do so, and just at your sheer moment of cuteness. "Okay."

"You smiled."

How do you do that?

We walk along the street and I couldn't help but recall delightful memories as we walk past certain places to wherever you want to take me. As if we're sharing wavelengths, you point them out too as we pass, pointing to the park were we wrestled pixies and saved a baby werewolf from falling out of a tree, at the apartment complex were you barely scraped survival with a fallout of spectral flare, at the rooftop of a building from which a gargoyle waved its thanks once again for us helping it. You wave eagerly back at it, then it fell back into its dormant state.

Past the places of both happy and worrying nostalgia, I find that we're under a bridge, where you quickly sit down on the edge of one of the giant supports and you casually slip your socks and shoes off. I don't question what you're doing, nor do I argue when you wave me closer to you, telling me to take off my shoes and socks too. I do so merely out of curiosity; I can't protest and mean it.

You push yourself up quickly and nimbly, arms flying out as you jump from the support to the ground. As you land, you laugh and dig your toes into the sand. I follow after, casually glancing at you as you look back at me, waving me along to come follow you silently. You dash off along the sands, escaping the canopy of the bridge high above us. At some point, you hit tall bay grass darting out up along the sands, and you stop, waiting for me to catch up. I hear trucks fly by on top of the bridge as I finally meet up with you, roaring their calls to other cars perhaps, but you ignore them like they don't exist at all, merely smiling at me. "Watch this," you say, then kick your foot into the grass, and out swarm lights, flickering on and off up into the air, mimicking the stars high above us that flicker gently so far away with light.

"Fireflies?" I ask, looking back at you and you laugh, waving your hand through the air.

"Magic ones, in a sense," you tell me, smiling widely. "'Cause fireflies only come out in early summer, right? Well it's winter, isn't it?" You laugh and then lace your fingers together, then raise them high into the air in a stretch. You turn back around and push through the grass, clamoring up onto a tall rock on the other side. I follow after you with a little more ease, and, on top of the rock, you spread out your arms. "Isn't it nice?"

I'd agree with you, if it weren't for the factories in the distance spitting out smoke into the deep blue sky and pushing it out over the sea. Otherwise, it'd be really nice.

I look back at you once more, nearly smiling. "Yeah." You look back at me too, smiling gently. Your smile is something comforting and delightful. I hope you always smile.

You turn away with that smile still and walk parallel to the water, jumping rock to rock, fingers curled in slightly as you do so. You then spread your arms out wide like a child imitating a plane or a circus-wire act, and when you finally reach the last rock, you turn back around to me slowly with such a gentle smile that I get a feeling of embarrassment suddenly. I advert my eyes and look away for slight embarrassment simply for braving to watch you as you went along with such a child-like demeanor, although not nearly in an immature way. That's just how you are, I decide as I studied the sea, and yet you continue to wave me over, even as you turn away again and I will up again to watch you and follow. I trace your footsteps over the rocks and then off, joining you were you wait with your feet buried deep in the sand simply by your continuous effort to move them in circles. You giggle, acting like your stuck there in the sand, although your only ankle-deep in the loose, white sands. I look at your with incredulous placidity, to which you grin and place one hand high up on my shoulder, using me for leverage to pull your feet out. You laugh and thank me, and we move on along the bank. It feels like after that we lose track of time as we walk and occasionally sit down, giving me the feeling that we've stayed out all night simply to watch the boats that sit out in the water, some moving along and some just docked. I can't really say, nor care to, how long we've been outside, just walking and talking and doing simply - enjoyably - nothing. I recall in the back of my mind as we stare out at the ocean from a fairly tall dune of sand that you likely have some motive for bringing me here, as to why you made it a surprise that we were going, though I don't question you, because I don't feel the need or want to find an answer.

Though, you seem to have gained the ability to read my mind and you turn to look at me once we're sitting, myself sitting back and you with your arms around your knees in a curled up way. Your eyes study me and I finally look back, questioning silently. You look away again and back to the waters.

"Today's the day."

I stare at you quietly, beckoning you to continue silently, although you don't, so I follow your gaze, out to the along the waters. Once I do, you suddenly push your hands into your pockets, pulling out a piece of paper, making it crinkle quickly as you fold neat, expert creases, drawing my attention back to you from the waves that lap at the shore and a piece of driftwood there. As soon as I do, I just barely catch you finishing off a paper crane and you hold it in your palm now, gazing at it with a solemn expression, your chin rested on the arm around your knees, the other with the crane stretched far out in front of you. Finally, you look back at me, moving the crane towards me. I slowly reach out back, and you place it gently in my hand before you turn away again, keeping your arms around your knees again.

"One thousand."

I turn it over in my hands a few times, eyes studying each edge intently. It seems so delicate in my hands, which seem so large compared to it. It's pretty tiny, and I can't help but wonder if you carried around a single piece of paper all this time for this purpose.

"What's your wish?"

I look up, and I realize now that you're looking at me with that heavyhearted attempt at a smile that makes me feel like I've done you wrong. I stare back at you, and there's nothing between us but a dull ache that I feel in my dead heart and a heavy but calm silence, until you break it when you look away from me again, and silence settles over a bit once more until you speak quietly.

"Won't you wish for your memories back? I'm sure you want them, to know about your life." Although you say this, you don't look at me, and I know why you don't.

"Hanna…"

"Don't you want your old life back? Isn't that what you want?"

"Hanna…"

"This whole time, what you wanted to wish for? Wouldn't you just like to at least know? Won't you leave me once you do, to go back to your home where you have a real name and…"

"Hanna." The firmness of my voice, it makes you look at me, officially cutting you off, and I know what you're thinking of. Those eyes of yours, even when shrouded by your glasses, have never been able to hide what you've ever thought of, even though your expression and actions put up so much fight to protest, so you seem peppy, happy, and…

I push myself up off the ground and your eyes follow me, I can tell, as I make my way down the dune, because I can hear you call after me quietly in question. I don't care though, to turn back around, because this is what I want, and it's my turn.

The waves lap at my feet, inviting me in. I look around me and I can hear you leaning on the sand to get a better look at me. After a little bit of searching quickly, I find a bottle, probably one of the ones strewn randomly from a bar nearby, lucky enough to not break in the streets above and behind us. I pluck it from its home in the sand and then move against the small, incoming waves, pushing against the resistance that the water gives against my body, and, god, don't you soon forget that this is what I want, Hanna. I wade out into the water, empty bottle in one hand, the last crane you'll ever make me in the other, and, soon, I'm waist-deep in the black abyss taken for water, and I pick the bottle up, holding up against the moonlight. I hear you call me once more, asking me what it is I could possibly be doing, and I know; at last, I know what it is. I know you're much farther behind me, probably only shin deep in the black waters, but I continue anyway, tucking the bottle under my left arm. I stare at the top of the bottle and decide that it will do. I pluck at the tiniest paper crane of them all, the last one you'll ever, ever make for me and I close my eyes quickly, clutching it's little wings between two fingers. I then fold its paper wings together, and, then, it disappears inside the bottle, in which it opens back up elegantly as before. I place it down in the water, pushing it off enough so the water will take it out, and it does, drawing it back into the sea, far enough for my tastes once you finally reach me. You look at me in awe as I look back at you, and the water must be deep, because it's halfway up your stomach.

"Why did you do that? What about your wish?"

I look out at the sea, seeing the bottle fairly off in the distance. I take in a little, unneeded breath, then release it slowly, smiling faintly.

"For a long time, I didn't know what I was ever going to wish for, Hanna," I tell him, and I know he's staring at me with an apologetic, almost concerned, expression. "But, I don't need that wish, Hanna. My wish has already been granted."

"And what was it?"

I look back down at you again, to catch you eyeing me curiously. "Why would I want that life when I obviously have a much better one right here, Hanna?"

Your expression turns more apologetic again, but then you smile widely and slowly. Together, we look back at bottle floating off into the ocean. I don't need that wish. Nor did I ever want it. We've been out all night, I know now, because I seen the faint hint of the sun on the horizon line, the sky warming like I feel my heart is, the darkness lifting from our very skins. And, in this moment, I feel…

Truly alive.

And this… this is my wish on our thousandth paper crane.

I love you, Hanna Falk Cross, my best friend. Thank you for letting me live.