How long had I been there? I have no idea. Looking over others' shoulders, reading their newspapers and magazines, I think I must have been dead for ten years. That seems about right...

But it's so hard to be certain. The time between then and now is foggy and indistinct, like things seen through far-off haze. And that's the Shroud for you - letting you see only so much, if anything at all.

My teacher, who is no longer amongst us, was a master of folding and bending time back upon itself. He said that what the Sleepers experience is akin to what he let the living see, and feel, but somehow different. I wish I had spoken to him more on that subject, but...

Well, regrets are another thing we are all well-versed in, here. Quite.

What changed? Oh, that is also a tale. I'm told that you were strong enough to pull your Shroud from your own face...?

Ah, then I was told right. I envy you that, little ghost. I was not so lucky. I spent untold years trapped in my last moments, and trapping all those who came nearby in them as well.

Was I Arisen? Yes, I was, but not by anyone on this side of things. Some of the do-gooders might have gotten around to me, sooner or later, but I suppose I was low on their list. Either that or they feared the Order's reprisals for violating that part of the Injunction. Who can say?

All I know is that, one day, something wonderful happened. And then I was free.

I say it is wonderful now, but at the time it felt like violation. It felt as though someone were invading my most private memories and taking them out for inspection. A piece of myself was unraveled and played back for someone, out there, and the shock of it jerked me awake as surely as an alarm.

What happened? Oh, surely you can guess. That little, pleasant reminder I was talking about? Someone actually took it off the shelf, opened it up and read it.

Well, no, it's never that simple. In order for that to work, the person holding your reminder has to really connect with it. There has to be some kind of personal attachment made to it.

Maybe if you learn how all that works you'll know the name for that process. I confess that I don't. And since I don't really have the time to learn that sort of thing, I'll even confess that I don't much care to know the name.

All I do know is that, at that very moment, I was in the middle of reliving that death yet again. But halfway between the bench and the bushes I found myself losing my step. It was as though my progress were being impeded by invisible hands, and my mind was being forced to wander back in time.

Back to that library, and that shelf. Back to the day that I found that book, and stood there, reading it. Back to the day that I wept for what I read there, and put it back, flustered with joy and embarrassed to be crying over a poem...

Well, I did say I felt somewhat violated for reliving that. But whomever it was that picked up that book, and read it... they must have had a similar reaction. In fact, I know that person did, because I could feel it.

Yes. For the briefest of moments, Essence passed between the two of us. I was inside his emotions, and he was inside mine.

It was only the briefest of contacts, but it was enough for us to share something of each other. Perhaps he took the joy I felt reading that book, so long ago.

But I took his nostalgia, and I used it to come back.

It was just like breathing deeply of others' fear when I frightened them. Only instead of ordinary air, this time, I was taking in the sweetest and purest...

Oh, words cannot do it justice, little ghost. Suffice it to say that I was drinking down heaven, then. And it was so strong and so rich that it brought me to my senses, then and there.

I remember thinking how strange the world looked - how surreal and distorted. Things seemed to be behind warped glass, and the air was heavy and wet. Humid.

Then I realized that it wasn't the air that was heavy and wet. I was caught up in that something, and found it repellent, like an unwanted hand on my shoulder. So I sought to tear it from myself as quickly as I could.

My shroud came apart as easily as tissue paper, and fell to my feet in tatters. I felt the cold, night air on my face, and saw no trace of the man who'd been killing me all those years. I saw bright park lights that hadn't been there just moments ago, and a new set of benches, right on the way to the trees...

And I knew, at long last, that I was dead.

Everything since then is really none of your business, but I'll fill in some of the blanks. As you might suspect, I stumbled about, meeting others like any other little ghost might. And they all said "Oh, you're her?" And things went from there.

I was approached by this group and that group, all trying to get me to join in. The Order, the Believers... even the Pardoners, if you can believe that. I sent that high-minded fool running away quickly, let me tell you....

But it wasn't until I met the Haunters that I realized I'd found the right people. Or rather, they found me. And they made me an offer that I literally couldn't refuse, under the circumstances.

Yes, I thought you might understand that.

No... don't be too glum about it. Let the old ones have their pomp and pomposity, little ghost. It's rude and it's presumptuous and it's sickeningly unfair, but sooner or later their Anchors all fade away, and then the old ones are replaced by the young, who must in turn demand fealty of those even younger.

It's just the way things are. Who makes the world?