It’s crowded–more than usual. The weather is nice, warm enough that the wet cold no longer bothers Kwong. The lot is filled with busy food vendors, lines stretching towards and around the buildings that surround the market. It’s gotten so bad that some of the streets have been closed off. Nobody honks though, the evening dining tradition so ingrained into the Lokra community. 

Kwong is no exception, expertly weaving through the crowd and securing one of the many mini plastic white tables that litter the fronts of carts and mobile dining trucks. Two cups of tea rest between the Stranger and them on the table, both entirely untouched as Kwong waits to finish towel drying their hair. The Stranger is watching them, arms folded and unusually quiet. Kwong decides to probe first.

“You never said your name. Before.”

The Stranger starts, apparently having been lost in thought. “It’s Zāl, ” he chirps in reply. “Just Zāl.”

“Suspicious.”

“How could I not be?” Zāl jokes, waving a hand in front of himself. “‘specially when I look like this.”

“This is the second time,” Kwong continues, ignoring the banter. “In two days.”

“Ya,” Zal chuckles, “about that…I mentioned it last night but you’re kinda like a beacon. Ya know? Like a lighthouse or the watch towers that sit around the gates of Crosstone. Just real tall, real bright and real, uh, beacony?”

“Like a magnet?” Kwong provides, finishing with the towel and laying it to rest on their shoulders. The late spring sun is low but still warm.

Zāl’s posture slightly jumps, as if he’s excited. “Exactly! You’ve got this magnetic personality, and spirits love it. Thing is, spirits exist in this space in between.”

“The otherworld’?”

“So ya did listen!”

Kwong frowns. “You realize how ridiculous this all sounds.”

Zāl shifts, stretching his legs out, briefly bumping against Kwong. 

“But ya saw it,” Zāl assures. “The crying mask.”

The mask—the ghost from yesterday, her long black hair dancing in front of Kwong’s eyes in lieu of their eyelashes for a second. Without much thought, Kwong slowly turns to look at the entrance to their apartment building. 

There.

Waiting.

“It won’t come near you when I’m here.”​

Kwong turns back to Zāl, who attempts to sip the tea before him, only to frown and place it back on the table like a child.  

“Why is that?” Kwong asks. 

“Same reason yer not dead now,” Zāl answers, lifting up his arm. Kwong notices the beads wrapped around his wrist make small clicking noises.

“So, you really are a priest.”

“Not a priest. I’m a cheikh.”

“A priest of a different name.”

“Not really, it’s just a fancy name for a wise old man. I exorcise spirits alright, like the one that nearly took you to a watery grave in the kiddy apartment pool.”

“Ah,” Kwong says, glancing back to the spirit across the road. She sways. “She won’t come near me because you’re here.”

“Kinda.”

“Kinda?”

Zāl shrugs, following Kwong’s gaze. From this angle, Kwong can see the corner of Zāl’s eyes, watching him squint to view across the road. His gaze seems to be struggling to land on anything.

“There’s a lot of ifs in this. She’s not approachin’ cause I’m here, but that just means she’s too weak too. There are plenty of spirits who probably could come runnin’.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Well, that’s where you come in.” Zāl turns around, facing Kwong. His earrings dangle and his smile twists into something more sinister, as if he’s been preparing this little speech for a while. “I’m not as strong as I used to be, but you. You’re fresh! You can see ‘em!”

“Forget it.”

Zāl pauses, momentum stalling. “What?”

“I know where this is going,” Kwong replies sharply, finishing the remaining tea of their cup before gently putting it down next to Zāl’s full one. “I’m not going to exorcise anything.”

“Why not?” Zal whines and it astonishes Kwong. “It’s your fault they’re here anyway. You’re guiding them here.”

“Well, unguide them. Isn’t that your job?”

“With great power comes great responsibility.”

“Did you just quote a cartoon at me?”

“A comic, actually. My point, Yeung Kwong—”

“No.”

“Yeung—if you don’t, they’re just gonna keep comin’. Unless…” Zāl’s face splits in two again, a grin spreading from ear to ear. “Unless you really like hangin’ out with me.”

Kwong stares at that expression, stares long and hard and debates quite a few things. They think of the tattoos, the eeriness of snakes that seem to follow Kwong like an over looming sense of damnation. They think of Quinton, on the roof that night. They think of something that they had convinced themselves wasn’t there—might have actually—

“Okay.”

Zal lights up, shooting out of his seat and reaching over the table to clasp Kwong’s shoulders. “Really?”

Kwong is uncomfortable with his overfamiliarity and stands up as well, gently plucking the others' hands off of them.

“But if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it my way.”

Zāl’s smile shrinks a little. “Your way?”

“Yes.”

“And how are you going to do that? Like Zhong Kui style?”

“What?” Kwong shakes their head. “No, I need a rope.”

Zāl’s eyebrows rise above his glasses. “Rope?”

“Yeah,” Kwong says, pushing both their chairs back in and bringing their cups back to the counter. They gesture for Zāl to follow them to their bike. “Rope.”

Zāl does follow, almost sulking a bit as Kwong guides them out of the market. “What for?”

Kwong doesn’t turn around, so Zāl is unable to see the small upward tilt of the corner of their lips. “You’ll see."

THE GHOST: End.