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"I dreamt once of telling a story that was untellable" said the ghost. He was as pale as a white sheer shawl. The light passed through him like it would pass through fabric. Weaving the light on the other side to fit the shape that held it.
The woman to whom he was talking had not expected to be contacted so soon.
"And so I never told it. The fragmented bits they were sewn in and along my mind until I went mad. The reality of the world became unstitched. I was clearly insane. It was because of this I died. I was a story-teller at heart. And not telling my stories killed me. I was under the delusion that a story must be complete. In death it is clear to me now that no story is complete. No thread has ever finished it's path in the embroidery. Even when the physical dies. The This. The Thing That We Are. That lives on. And it was foolish of me not to realize this."
The woman listened in silence.
"If true human lives have no end, then neither do stories. The effects of each individual life pass on, keep affecting people, even those lives that are unfinished."
The woman asked him, "How are we to learn from stories that are incomplete? If you have not yet shown the moral?"
The ghost became annoyed at her. "Haven't you been listening? Each thread is incomplete. As it twines, so do we twine with other people and other people's stories. If a person is incomplete, and yet we can twine with them, we can also twine with stories. Seeing what is there, and imagining what is not, and understanding good and also seeing the evil. This is what you call 'understanding'. It is when you see what is actual, and then extrapolate the truth."
The woman thought about this for a while. "How do I know what is true?"
The ghost grabbed her by the wrist. His touch was cold, like a river starting to ice over in winter. He touched the palms of their hands together, and then was gone. When she looked at the palm of her hand it was enscribed:
Everyone knows what is true. You must simply understand it first.
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