such a perfect time to echo softly

She's not a fan of drifting. Ghosts drift, wafting through houses and wailing down streets. She was not a ghost, though the physical was not a limitation to her when she deemed it so. There were rules, and she did take such pleasure in breaking them, but the aimlessness of drifting did not enthuse her. How did one go about capturing the attention of a demon who, for lack of a better term, was an alien entity? Did she jump through the same hoops she did at home, tracking them down and dragging their ear when she needed to pass a message along to the man downstairs? Or did she get traditional and silly by gutting a goat and turning a cross upside down, like a horror movie?

Deciding all of that was rather silly, she finds a comfortable spot in that slip between worlds. Amira had knitting to do, homework to complete. Night classes made such a great excuse for absence, but the upkeep of her host's life demanded the bare minimum of proof of it. She sits, staring thoughtfully in the distance, and waits.