"Come on, keep up," laughs the tiny elfin creature in yellow and red clothes, an ensemble mixed and matched so haphazardly it was impossible to make out what pieces it was made with.

"I can't run as fast as you," comes back a child's voice, on the verge of laughter, but prevented by the exertion, as the kid chases the skipping sprite. Over roots that seem so huge, through bushes and tall grass, around rocks dotting the path that seems more like an obstacle course than anything else. But it doesn't matter to the two.

Within minutes, they are both at the destination, a waterfall, just a few meters high, bouncing over massive stones that were left in the path of the fast flowing creek. Faint mist rises over the place, small droplets of water thrown into the air, their companions left atop the running water, garbing it in white.

"I was still first," grins the sprite, as they sit on one of the rocks, not minding the dampness on it.

"And I still say, not fair," the young girl throws up her hands, her eyes glued to the waterfall. After a moment, she asks: "Do you think we can climb it?"

"Sounds fun! ... Except if it ends like last time, you'll have to explain all those scrapes and bruises again."

She sighs, but in the end, doesn't pursue it further. Instead, she drops to the forest floor, looking at her friend: "Last time, you promised me stories."

The sprite stands up, only to perform a deep bow, the hat they wore turned into a swirl of colour as they grab it within the motion. Suddenly turned into a wandering minstrel, a rambunctious storyteller, they grin, showing all of their teeth: "As you wish, my lady. But as repayment I ask, for a tale of your own, so that I may have one more to carry with me, to spread it far and wide. A simple transaction I believe. So, as my lady wishes, shall we begin the next tales' round?"

She giggles: "Sure... So if it is a round, and it turns and turns, last time it was mine, so yours is the first we'll hear today."

The sprite nods. Sitting back down, they begin to spin their imagination again. And trying to one up each other, they both will talk till the sun starts to touch the horizon.

 

***

 

And winter comes again, grips the land in its cold grasp. Leaves long fell off the trees and bushes, leaving them naked and dark. Snow covers all, the forest, the hills, the town in the valley. Even the waterfall is not spared, icicles in dozens of galleries replacing the falling water, a different kind of beauty - calm and quiet - covers the place.

The nature fell asleep, animals in their burrows, plants trying to last through the cold months. Even the sprite is asleep, hidden from the world, till the spring once again comes. Only the people are still awake. Hidden in houses, warmed by the fire, smoke is rising above the town. And between the snow-covered roofs, once evening comes, lights flicker on, the only warmth left in the land.

But it doesn't reach every place. No, the winter's hands are long. Even if the body is warm, the insides are not. And as she stares into the flames, its colour reflected in her eyes, the other glint is slowly disappearing. There is nothing to feed the spark. And every time she talks, every time she wakes in the house, it grows dimmer and dimmer. And with the long shadows of winter, the thoughts creep in. Where is her friend? Had they forgotten her? And what is it, that weighs her down, every morning not a herald of a new beautiful day, but a harbinger of days darker and darker, as the solstice ever closer comes.

It is just a few days after the longest night, when hope slowly emerges again, when the winter's grasp is slowly beginning to ease, when she wanders into that room. She had been here so many times. Yet, at this one moment, something is different. And she feels it, a gut instinct telling her to turn and go. But for some inane reason, she doesn't.

She has no idea, what happened. It is just flashes, a single crisp sound, followed by a scream. And thousands of tiny glittery pieces all around her. She vaguely knows someone is winding something around her hand. But it doesn't hurt. No, she can't feel the hurt. Because as she once again stares into the flames, it's only their glint that is seen in her eyes.

 

***

 

The winter is long gone, but the door remains closed. They pace around near the edge of the forest, the closest they ever were to the house. But it is still and quiet. Its walls don't respond to questions, its windows don't allow for a single peek inside. The shutters closed, and where they are not, only the reflections of the trees above are seen. There is no life in these walls, just a silent monolith that weathered all, but lost all of its features to the time.

The sprite still doesn't give up. They still wait for their friend. But no one is coming. It's been a long time. A long time staring into that soulless wall, at the door firmly closed. They were left alone. Forgotten... no. They once again remind themselves to not think like that. They will wait. A long time. As much as is needed. And maybe one day, the two of them will once again laugh under the trees.

But for now, they have to go, leave this place. Yet the forest doesn't welcome the sprite back. It has lost its hues, the slight sheen of wonder, the lightness of air, the joy they felt there every day. But now, it is mundane. Trees, and bark, and slight wind. Shadows under the thousands of leaves. But it is empty. Or their eyes are. They no longer can see that for which they lived. Quietly, the sprite walks away. Their steps are halting, and the colour of their dress is slowly fading away.

 

***

 

It stands without movement, in between two performances. Back in the backroom, hidden from sight. Yet even there, it stays motionless. There is nothing moving the strings, and so nothing moves. After all, it cannot. A marionette moves only by the will of its puppeteer. So even if alone, even if there is nothing stopping it, it won't move. The idea never crosses its mind. Maybe there was once such a thought. But not anymore. It can't even remember if it ever was there.

After all, the past is hazy. It has no need for it. Just the present, just the moment it needs to move, to act. What came before? What will come? What imagination can a doll have?

The strings hang from above, connected to the wooden handles. As inanimate as the marionette. Yet with them, the doll can move, can perform, be lifelike.  Yet every time it is, it becomes even more lifeless, nonexistent. How come the puppeteer can still use it, still see something in the doll, and bring it out? The thought slowly crawls through the puppet's mind, yet no answer comes. It doesn't even attempt to answer it. Or really, it doesn't notice it at all. That which is left is focused on something else. On the last performance. One, that stayed behind a little longer.

"See, you're finally old enough," grins another actor.

"No. Simply no," replies a feminine voice. This one, the marionette sees. It wants something from this character. But what? All it can do, is watch. Is it the costume? Or how the sound seems like it comes right out of this actress, instead from far behind, from somewhere else, which is not the doll itself? It doesn't know. But it watches, and listens.

"It is a nice picture, you look handsome," continues she, giving it something back. The marionette would recoil, if it could, if the strings moved it as it wanted. But they don't, they just move its hand forward.

The strings never listen. Even if it screams, wails, even if it tries with all its might to stop, the strings are always what guides it. The doll no longer tries that. It knows it's pointless. Just let itself be dragged by this unflinching puppeteer.

The marionette once again sees that picture. It looks back at her. And this time, its fingers move. Just slightly, but they do. The doll grips the picture with all might. But nothing happens. It still stares back.

A faint memory resurfaces. A different picture. A different stare. But so much the same. Yet this time, it stays. Why shouldn't it, after all? The marionette has no say in this. It will always be here. It lovers the hand.

"We gotta celebrate," announces the actor. The doll did not have to listen before. It was sure the strings would lead it, as they did forever before. Even if the marionette did not hear what was said, what did it matter? It did what it was told, it did not act, just followed.

The marionette returns back to the backroom. The memory has flown away. It knows what happened afterwards, or... it knew. There was food... and grass, and smell of roasted meat. But what of it? One more piece of the mosaic it has no need for. The room is grey, and so is mosaic. The strings hang limp. There is no need for them at this moment. Just a time of quiet nothingness. The marionette is not needed, and so it stands still. It might play again, but until then, there is no need to perform. Only the existence remains, and that, it cannot extinguish. Not yet.

 

***

 

The house is quiet and dark. Dozens of nooks and crannies, places to hide, to keep shadows in. Just the layers of dust and cobwebs are missing. But that doesn't matter. The chilling wind rattles the windows. No fire is warming the main room. No food is cooked in the kitchen. The place is silent.

No steps on the floor, no voices to fill the halls. The doors are closed. No visitors to come to this house. Nothing and no one to take care of this downtrodden building.

Still, something is here. A silent sigh on the wall. A slightly swaying curtain by the window. A single plate left in the sink. A tiny wrinkle on the one forgotten bed. A bookmark in one of the books, left on the night table.

The house is haunted, whispers the single light by the window, that shines into the night. All the other windows are dark. The house is asleep, even when all the others in the town are alight.

But here, just a single flickering light. It might have long been snuffed out. But today, a slight change came upon the house. Upon the only inhabitant left to guard it. And thus, by the bookmarked book sits a figure. An indistinct one, just wisps and shadows, reminiscent of a person. Still, they can turn a page. And another.

There is no shape to the ghost. Just a remnant of something, someone, in the distant past. A memory, or the last remaining figment.

The shadows are long, and meld with the figure, the locks of smoke rise above it, distorting the light. It sways, and shakes, the warm yellow turns into hundreds different shades, yet losing the inviting warmth. Dark shapes dance on the walls, all a part of this moment, when something else bleeds in. The night is still young, but already it had opened some door long lost.

The spectre is silent, it doesn't know how to speak. But the pages still turn, the words drawn into the unseen eyes, melded into the shadow, the ink making it darker. And as the book's halfway read, the ghost is no longer just grey, instead black ribbons swirl around and inside, and for the first time this evening, the ghostly fingers are now seen.

Just thin and gaunt, like skin was drawn over bone, the corpse's hand. But it is there, and the thin fingers turn the pages. Slowly and carefully, reverently even. Nothing stains the paper, the ghost's hands are clean. It's just the gloom and dour melancholy, that covers the room in a robe of grey.

Even the lamp pales, as the horizon slowly lightens, heralding the impending dawn. Now finally the ghost raised their head, looking out of the window. And seeing the advent of the sun, its time has come to a close. A bookmark put in between the pages, the book left on the nightstand. And with nary a sound, the figure dissolves in shadows and wisps.

Just a single tear stays glistening on the windowsill, a droplet to welcome the sun.

 

***

 

The marionette is once again on the stage, dressed up to the nines. Black and white from top to bottom, the fabric ironed out to perfection, not a wrinkle in sight.

But it doesn't fit, the wooden sticks instead of arms and legs, the misshapen torso, all that hidden under the clothes, but the doll feels it. And the clothes themselves feel more like a different garb of black and white, covered in horizontal stripes.

But still it walks as the strings will it, dragged by the puppeteer once again blind to all the world around her. Sometimes it hears that this world is beautiful, that one should enjoy the life. But the puppet cannot understand that. It has a role to play. Nothing else is relevant. All it can see is the play, in shades of grey like the old silent movies. But even the accompanying music is not there. No orchestra to play by the screen. All the marionette hears is through a long tunnel. Or a mass of poorly made glass. Or at the bottom of the sea.

"Congratulations," it hears. And as the strings move, the marionette accepts the praise, while its mind deflects the words as it had done all the time before.

"What will you do now? A university? Work?" asks another actor, an older one. And as the script goes, the marionette - or the disembodied voice behind it - replies: "I don't know."

This time, the puppet agrees. There is no plan, it doesn't have one. The strings complete the sentence with a shrug.

And with sudden dread, the marionette realizes, the strings are slack. The puppeteer is no longer controlling it so tightly. This is a point where it could do something. Move by itself. Yet the puppet doesn't. It can't. It has no vision of anything else than what was its guide. And thus it tugs at the strings. The marionette wishes for the strings to move it again. To move it in this play it is in, but doesn't know.

 

***

 

The ghost once again stalks the house. It isn't empty this time, but what does it matter? The hunger for stories has come once again. And so this ethereal existence glides over to the library, thankfully empty. There are so many books here, treasure troves of tales both mundane and grand, of the mystical and of the common world, of many a character - but all of them more flesh-like than the ghost themselves. The spectre grasps for them, yearns for the tales they live, the adventures they experience, or the people they meet. To talk to them, to be like them, to live like them.

The ghost has read a lot over the years, hiding from anyone entering this sanctuary, one of the few places which they could call their own. One they knew, one, where the world did not seem so far away, intangible even.

The figure grabs another book. This one is new, the cover still bright, not covered by the thin layer of dust that covers all the books one doesn't constantly read. And once again, it leaves, a single book gone.

It doesn't seem anyone notices the ghost. They might not even be here, a haunting which no one ever notices. But no matter, this being still exists, and whether it's invisible or not, it will still act.

Sometimes, people notice. Not much, just a tiny discrepancy. There is no reaction, though, and the life in the house, with one inhabitant less or more, continues uninterrupted.

With the book back in a room the ghost considers safe, they once again immerse themselves into the story. They are no longer grey, no longer is the form completely indistinct. The ink has stained the body, drew its lines, contoured the shape. And no longer are the hands like that of the dead. Still slender, but shaped like a person's.

And still they turn the pages. Only this time, the pace begins to pick up, the paper turned faster, the words devoured. It is not night outside, the ghost doesn't fear the sun, not anymore. And as they close the book, slowly, ever so slowly, as if to contradict the frantic speed from before, lay the back cover onto the last page, a quiet sigh escapes the ghost's lips.

They slowly turn the head towards the window, towards the outside. But not to watch the horizon, instead, the gaze falls upon the trees marking the end of the garden, and the beginning of the unknown. Of the forest. And as the ghost looks, the forest beckons. Something long forgotten stirs, and it is in the trees that the ghost sees a single tiny shard. A shard, that might hold answers.

Hesitantly, they extend their hand towards the outside. But that is all they can try. The ghost cannot leave the house. And so it will sit by the window and gaze outside. Yearn for the impossible and wait.

 

***

 

The winter had once again passed, and spring took to the land. Little buds covered the trees, young green grass once again rose up from the ground. And with the first spring wind, the patience of the ghost quickly waned.

Now, they stare upon what was up until a while ago hidden in the dark reaches of the ceiling. Several thin lines binding a lifeless body and the handles that brought it to life - or a simile of it.

The ghost knows they cannot not leave this house. But this puppet could. All that is needed is someone to guide it. Determined, the ghost grasps the handles.

 

Getting out of the door was easy. But where to now? The forest. Something guides them to the forest. And it seems, like an almost broken string, there is something also tugging at the marionette. No, not a marionette. The ghost's body. Right now, it is the only way to go where they want. A body to be used.

The first few trees are fine. But after that, there is no path. Just rocks and roots and bushes, low hanging branches, and hundreds of nettles. It doesn't matter. The ghost just presses forward.

Stumbling over the obstacles, they notice how unaccustomed are they to a body. How alien is it to walk, or even weave and climb through this forsaken place. But this is not the time to give up, the ghost knows that, and even when their grip on the handles wanes, they instead speed up. There is something at the end of this path. And they have to know.

 

A creek crosses their path. Wild and angry from the thawing snow, the ghost doesn't try their luck. Instead, it follows it upstream. The moss is damp and slippery. This time, it is not nettles but ferns they have to go through. But finally, the tiny bank opens into a larger area. At the opposite end is a rocky slope, a waterfall in its middle.

The body is tired and slumps to the ground. Something to refresh, thinks the ghost and with a flick of their wrist, sets out to splash cold water upon the body's face.

As the surface once again quivers back, back stares a face. Distorted, indistinct, but still there. An unkempt face, a haggard one even. But as the ghost looks, something stirs. It is not a one face. It's dozens upon dozens, as the water runs past, and in them, the ghost sees both their own, and the one of the body - overlaid.

Finally, they see what they couldn't before. A face that could be, a face that they recognize. And it is the face of the marionette - nay, the body, their body. Finally, all snaps into place. Many things may be wrong, and time the most of all, but now, there is a path forward. One that she can walk on.

 

***

 

Her tears fall into the stream, quiet sobs almost impossible to hear in the hum of the waterfall. Yet they still brought them here. The sprite watches her. They had almost lost all hope, but it was that tiny sliver that remained, that brought them here, today, at this very moment.

She looks very different. Sad and beaten by the time. But no longer broken. They see it, the largest wound finally stitched together, finally ready to heal.

Slowly, they walk to her side, now absolutely tiny, compared to her. It doesn't matter. The sprite slowly places their hand at her shoulder. Without a word, but still hoping it won't startle her. She turns her head to them, sunken eyes red from crying. But this time, the spark is there, faint, but they can see it. And then smile as her eyes widen in recognition.

It takes a moment before she smiles back. It looks hard, like she forgot how to smile. Still, slowly, the corners of her mouth rise upward.

"Welcome back, my lady," the sprite says with a bow, "And I believe there are tales to be told, with tears or without."

"I... I'm sorry," she manages to squeeze out, "... And yes, there are."

The sprite smiles and then tries to hug her, awkwardly trying to get their arms around her neck. They whisper: "But for now, there is no need to talk."