Why else would you have kept such a foggy photo, if not because it contained something important? 

Light had damaged the film roll, spreading a gray smudge across the upper two-thirds of the image. Only a pair of legs, from knobby knees downward, remained visible. 

A single long cobweb hung from the ceiling where I’d lowered myself down at your side. It swayed in a breeze blowing through the door you’d left open in your haste to flee. My cobweb reached almost to the footstool where you’d sat, but didn’t quite reach. 

You’d knocked me flying when you’d jumped up.

Legend had it, because of course legend did, that you took unwanted things. Neglected things. Folks made sure to pull items out of storage every few months so they’d be there when they were needed again. 

Otherwise, you’d take them.

As far as you were concerned, burial didn’t count if it didn’t involve dirt. Yet we’d drifted far from land during our fight over who would captain this ship. And I didn’t have anywhere else to put your corpse when I won. 

I think I won, anyway.

To this day, I’m still looking for your soul. You lost it during that one game of hide and seek, remember? I don’t know what happened exactly, because you were hiding and I was seeking, and you broke cover before I found you.

But you came from the direction of that old barn where we weren’t supposed to play.

Moonlight glinted off golden panels where you worked on one of the solar arrays of your empty space station. These repairs could’ve waited until you’d reached the sunlit side of the darkened planet below, but I only appeared in moonlit reflections.

And you were lonely.

You got lost a lot. Like a whole lot. Like so, so much, that I had to start leading the way on your walk home.

But then, of course, you came to depend on me.

You just wanted to start over, you said. Everyone who comes to me always does. To escape bad relationships, bad debt, bad choices.

A blank slate.

“Wipe my identity,” you’d told me.

You committed thirteen taboos in a row as if begging for a lifetime of bad luck. The usuals everyone knows about, of course. Mirror. Umbrella. Ladder. Even some superstitions unfamiliar to you. Horseshoe. Scissors. Moonlit water.

Then you just sat. Waiting.

Our revel spilled out of a tavern and into the streets like a swelling celebration of your ham-fisted rule. Boisterous screams of laughter ripped through the tense night—calls to arms, drawing more and more partiers to our revelry.

To our secret rebellion.

Because you had gone too far this time.