Winter came, a shock of snow on the trees, white against unseasonable green. Darkness had become habitual, and so the light blinded him at first. There was a hint of sweet decay in the air, blankets of leaves settling after the rain. There had been fingernail scratches in the stone, shining blue-white against the black.
He’d been given a watch as a child, its letters bright green in the unlit bedroom. For a long time, he believed anything that glowed was radioactive, and had the potential to bestow superpowers. He also knew these things could only happen by accident. And so he willed himself to forget what he knew. It was, after all, the only reason he was standing here now, blinking and shading his eyes against the glare. To return to the living world, one need only forget that one is dead.
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