The girl climbed across the tumbled stones, that had once been great battlements. The wind whipped around her, whirling sandy gold strands into the air and across freckled cheeks, snubbed nose, and pale blue eyes. She was listening for the ghosts.

Down in the courtyard below, her baby sister toddled along in poofy bloomers, the floppy sunhat slid down to an angle. Her father, holding the baby's hand raked a hand through dark hair and turned to speak to her mother, who's cardigan was now half unzipped as she took pictures. Her hair blew like the girl's did, in sandy gold spirals.

Her family could not see the ghosts, or hear them.

But she could.

She snuck down from the wall and around the corner of the keep, under an arch way. The intricate iron gate hung twisted away from the entrance. The girl walked quietly as she could, tip-toe, through the dusty traces of stone pathway, and around the sad, drooping bush. Roses, dead and brown, dropped petals like golden rain whenever she brushed against them. Before her through the withered vines she could see an empty fountain, and then she saw him.

His ghost, a great shadow slipping silent as sunlight past, unseeing.

She watched him. and then turned back, running up to the wall, and looking down its side.
There, against the castle's brown stone, walked a solitary figure, dark hair swirling softly, pale gown rippling, transclucent limbs and form, slender fingers trailing against the rock, seeking a way in.

The girl sighed softly.