How? Strangely, Natty hadn't expected that question. He was just as curious as Barnaby was. "Well... talking it through, I suppose." And then an idea struck him. "Perhaps with a writer interested in penning your story."

  

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“Oh,” Barnaby said, suddenly almost preening – he had perked up in posture, tucking a strand of hair (that hadn’t actually moved back into place at all) behind his ear. Sometimes people were morbidly interested, he was very used to that... but the possibility of a writer interested in his tales was something else entirely.

It was no exaggeration to say Barnaby had been waiting for this moment all his death.

“‘Tis a very good idea indeed,” Barnaby said, musingly, trying not to seem too eager. He eyed the man impatiently. “And the writer in question would be...” he trailed off, raising an eyebrow to say whom, exactly? The man had supplied him a word; was he the wordsmith, then, or did he know of some obliging biographer?

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Natty hadn't expected the encounter to go this way — but then, he hadn't expected to meet a ghost today. (Did anyone ever expect that?) It was compelling, though, given why he'd visited the cemetery to begin with. Two men, one living and one dead, bonded by lost love.

But where would they find a writer to pen the ghost's story? Natty gave a twitch of a smile. "I dabble."

He was, after all, a Ghost Writer.

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   Barnaby Wye

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“Indeed?” Barnaby replied, too thrilled to quite contain his smile. It felt wrong to say, in the midst of a cemetery, a man who had lost his love and still felt sorrow for’t, but – “How fortunate.”

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"Indeed", Natty responded, slight smile lingering before he became a touch more businesslike. "We could even begin now, if you'd like. We could walk and talk." Or rather, Natty would walk and listen, while Barnaby glided and talked.

  

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Even Barnaby was not much in the habit in finding new leases of life by drifting amongst the graves – but this was as exciting a quest as any he could stumble upon. A request to tell his own tale?! He hardly knew where to begin: but he certainly did want to start as soon as possible. (He had never been patient, even in his Living days.)

He would forgive the mention of walking; Barnaby bobbed up and down in the air, and swept his body into a sleek bow, realising they had not even exchanged so much as a name before embarking on such a path. “Then allow me to introduce myself as – a Sir, once – Barnaby Wye.”

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Despite the ghost not having mass at all, Natty could feel his enthusiasm. It almost seemed to radiate from him. It would be enough to keep Natty warm on this chilly day as a great story was shared — though walking would help with that as well.

Natty had been content enough to know this man as The Poet Ghost, but there was no reason to avoid polite introductions just because one of them was deceased.

He failed to return the bow, but did at least offer a very courteous; "pleasure to meet you, Sir Barnaby. My name is Jonathan Copper — but my friends call me Natty."

  

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“And are we friends, Jonathan ‘Natty’ Copper?” Barnaby queried, half-in-jest. But his tone turned to the utmost sincerity, because he appreciated art too much not to admire another writer even if they were going to labour at his life-and-death for him, and he liked attention too much to disdain it from anyone who offered it. “I hope that we may be.”

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It did not take long to get a reply from Natty, who was after all a modest soul — "yes, I would say so." A friendly tone. And amusing, perhaps, that one should call the other Sir Barnaby while the other was merely "Natty".

Dead man's prerogative, perhaps.

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   Elias Grimstone

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