Ellie looked so stricken that Tommy was afraid to leave. Although they were ghosts, invisible, there was still agency in that spirit that it was best not to leave unguarded. Ellie’s eyes burned as she leaned over the bed where her husband-in-life lay. The room was stifled with sickness, but a cold breeze stirred and fluttered the pages of the open book on the desk.
“Ellie,” said Tommy, in a loud whisper. “What are you doing?”
Wallie the Imp likes to read. In Impland, Imps admire books for their practical usefulness: you can read them, write in them, and chew on them. Wallie tells me that nothing tastes better than a nicely yellowed paperback.