Simone stood and stretched like a cat, her fingers raking the invisible heaven above her head. The sunlight, streaming through the window in Lotfi's abandoned London flat, filtered through the very vision of her flesh. She sighed, a whispery sand-paper sorrow, as she gazed at her un-manicured nails and the dust particles that drifted through and between them.
"More traveling," she said slowly, the cadence of her voice not unlike a body swinging from a rafter, or the dripdripdrip of blood off of sacrificial blades. She lowered her apparition arms, let her fade-hands fall to her subconscious hips. With another cat's-tongue sigh, Simone turned away from the sun and Spring's budding noise; it had been perhaps two days spent as a ghost, and now she had several things to figure out:
Can I drift overseas? Or, do I simply will myself there? Must I travel by ship or plane?
One thing, however, was certain, and that was being able to roam at all. For she did not haunt the apartment in which her spirit rattled like the last shred of tobacco in the pack. Neither did she haunt London (for one thing, the place was too crowded), or any grassy hill or musty moore on the island.
Simone was Lotfi's ghost, he was her hallowed ground, and she'd be damned if she had to spend a soulless eternity not knowing where he was.