(no subject)

He doesn't really know what makes him come back here. Except that it's sort of on the way; he's taken the long way around, following the river away from the farmhouse and the lake, and it's dusk by the time he makes it to the Necropolis. The pack on his shoulder is empty, but he still feels weary. Though not any more than he has all this past week.

A house on a lake. No one around. In another life it could have been idyllic.

It's been a tightrope walk over the edge of what remains of his sanity.

But there are things he needs. And as much as he was sure that removing himself was necessary for the safety of certain people, maybe being alone now is also hard. Maybe harder than he can really bear.

Especially since he doesn't really even feel alone. There's always that doubling. There are ghosts waiting in the corners.

Outside the crypt, he pauses. It's almost full dark--he wonders if it's too early. If it matters. If he should just turn around and walk away again.

He raises a fist and knocks, hard. In all the way or not at all.