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‘What do you know, you’re dead.’

‘Yes, buried alongside your abysmal attempts at humour.’

Ha! Chet! I knew he was a jazz man.

I remove the sleeve of the record and place it down. There’s a soft crackling before the record begins. The tinkering of a piano fills the space. It’s gentle and warm. Familiar in a way I didn’t know until I came to this place.

‘Do you play?’ I nod towards the piano.

He doesn’t answer. ‘What are you doing up here?’

Ah. Yes. That’s right. There was a purpose for coming up here before my frayed attention became ensnared in the world of Walker.

‘I came up looking for frames. Lav said⁠—’

‘That twiggy little witch,’ he mumbles under his breath.

‘Lav said,’ I resume, ‘that there may have been some up here.’

‘And then…?’

‘And then I took it upon myself to migrate, because I like the vibes, and Lavender is passed-out drunk.’

‘Wonderful,’ he says, facetiously. ‘My afterlife’s mission, now complete. I’ve passed Miller’s vibe check. I can finally retire.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Are you almost done?’

‘I would be if you stopped peppering me with questions.’ Walker’s eyes are narrowed at me when I look up at him.

That’s a bold-faced lie. I should have been done ages ago, but instead I’ve been prying through Walker’s worldly possessions.

‘You could help?’ I offer, and his head rears back like he’s been struck. Guess that’s a ‘no’ then.

I groan a bit like a cow in labour as I crawl back across the floor to what I should be doing – framing the remaining works.

‘What’s the point of all this?’ He motions to the absolute state of disarray I’ve left his room in.

‘The library’s hosting an exhibition tomorrow that I’m helping with.’

‘Why?’ he asks with an air of boredom.

‘Because I want to.’ Fuck, why are these frames so fucking difficult to get the backs off of?

‘Why?’ This time with slight revolt and pure confusion.

‘You could come and find out for yourself.’

‘I’m working.’

The backing of the frame eventually relents, and I put it aside in lieu of brushing my fingertips over scattered fragments of documented life.

‘I just love people.’ I sigh, picking through the pieces. Aggy wrote a memory of the beach with her daughter, before she lost her to cancer. It’s beautiful, and horrible all at once. Simple and difficult, too. All the things. I think I like this one best. ‘I love their stories. I think they’re so incredibly interesting. Don’t you?’

‘No. I think that the majority of people are incredibly dull, and the more people you know, the less time you have to be doing what you should be doing.’ That’s a very Walker-esque opinion to have. To prove a point, he’s begun framing the pieces using his shadows, without looking, as if he’s spiting the pieces by offering them no attention. Damn him, how does he get them so straight?

‘It’s a privilege to get to know someone and have them share their life with you,’ I say, struggling to get it as centred as him. He takes it from me, fixes it effortlessly. I blow the errant strand of hair he likes to pull out of my face.