Before the ghosts, there were the ghosts of the Roamers:
Roamers from lost nations, Roamers with pitched spines, Roamers for 
wandering barren deserts for reincarnation. Before the ghosts, there were 
the spirits. The spirits of the peeling, and the having peeled—
of the cicadas slipping out of their own skin as the setting sun 
plants purple kisses on their leftover husks. Before the ghosts, there was 
the chill of winters. There were the chill of stories ruminating on children 
descended from the Roamers, and the ghosts of their opuses. Before which 
were the drummers whose rhythms resembled once-pounding heartbeats. 
There were long-forgiven ghosts, long-forgotten ghosts. Made ghosts in 
the steps they took to avoid their fate. There was the enamored flicker;
a gnarled jester confronting the sun. She was harmonious with the ghosts
and had respired enough grief to welcome their sorrow—which transpires when 
the ghosts only known words left unsaid and graves untouched. It ignites when 
generational echoes reverberate. It sparks true when Mother tells Daughter, 
“Grieve only while with Grief and not a second more.” 
By the time the ghosts had materialized, the fire had already 
unfurled. It unfurled in the innocent and the sinned. It unfurled, and 
another unfurling inferno raged in its ash. It unfurled, and 
we woke up and buried a home, became de-shelled Roamers 
alongside those displaced, as everywhere, the ghosts charred, 
the ghosts joined our shadows. Our predecessors, bygone ghosts, they vowed, 
“Please, take me home. Please, do not borrow Grief from Her future,”
and unfurled. Unfurled the same oath from their ancestors’ lips, 
fated to be so ancient and forgotten, we grew into recidivists.