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By and by, someone picks up on the trail of frozen tears.

An errant shadow hangs far above, aloof, but watchful.

It's not a man, just a memory of a man, an animate body that refuses to die with the rest.

There is nothing emotional to sense from this lingering shade, except for the memory of things long lost, and the residue of pain.

He hovers for a little while, at this place, like a restless ghost passing through.

The boy looks to be in trouble, and it's bitter, bitter cold. But he doesn't intervene with nature....he is barely cognisant of the boy's suffering.

The boy that feels the inner workings of every person's emotions, and the man who doesn't even bother to acknowledge the obvious.... It's no wonder that when they came into contact the reaction was explosive....

Ignoring the cold around him, the boy slid to his knees, his legs unable to support the weight of long delayed emotions that rushed into him. Every detail of the freed memory seared itself into the redhead's mind. It should have been dealt with long ago, and he was paying for it now. His were not the only emotions crashing through him; inanimate things retained memories as well. They do not feel them, but humans often attach their sentiments to objects. Aylen felt his mother's horror as the fire headed towards their house, and desperation as she realized there was nothing she could do. He felt his father's helplessness as he watched everything they had worked for burn away. Both of their panicked confusion as they searched for him outside, only to realize he was still inside.

Then his own memory continued the story. He saw his father burst in and bodily throw him from the window. He felt every shard that cut his skin. His mother caught him, then went in after his father. Neither of them would be seen again.

Gasping for breath as the memory abruptly freed its grip on him, he slowly removed his hand from the wall. His hand was covered in crumbling soot, but the boy didn't bother to brush it away. His body and spirit still adjusting to the new maelstrom raging within him, he stood, his face dry.

He had done what he came to do.

Turning around, he caught sight of the man that stood there, watching him. "How long have you been there?" he asked somewhat abruptly. "Er, I mean...that is...nevermind," he muttered. Pushing through the grass once again, he made his way to the main road.

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He doesn't know why he's still here. He continues to hang there, slowly turning in the nothingness, watching them.

Dorien. ******** Dorien. Well, how much longer can he live?

Well enough. I've lived over the hill and down the trail since I was littler than you. I make it a point to know my neighbors.

+The old man smells like sage and valley blossoms, and the herbs that grow wild in the wood. Like a part of the forest. His face is leathery and creased from age, but his eyes are a very clear grey. He looks to be in his sixties, but robust for his age, and agile in his movements, his feet quickly and naturally jumping to the easiest places to step as they scale the hill.+

Your mother, she had lovely hair. Bangs fell across her face like wild vines. Always had a very soft smile on her face. Your father, he worked hard, had strong hands. They were real young to have a child to raise. Good, honest people.

+They get to the base of the stones. They're simple markers, chiseled a little by hand tools, possibly by this very man. The weather has stained them, and moss has started to grow on them.+

Settles just above the gravestones, two graves full, and one empty. He still doesn't know why, but he finds the exchange morbidly amusing. He continues to watch like a perched carrion bird.