I'm not, I'm... I'm not making it better, it's, that's him, I'm —

( Restless, fidgeting, already feverish with movement. Waving his hands as if he's searching for an artefact lost, for something that should be found. And as he moves, the bone dust from the ground rises, its particles spiral and spool together in the air, and convert to molecules, to skeleton, to muscle, to skin, to men and women whole, alive and well and gazing wide-eyed upon each other —

And the mould comes for them, from within, spores and flowers blooming, until it eats them down to nothing, like locusts.

He is silent, as dust slips down again. Drained. )

I'm keeping it back, I'm keeping it still. And it hurts. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm trying, I'm... I never meant for it to happen.