The mist had settled low on Kensington Gardens as Silas limped into a quiet hollow out of sight.

　　Kneeling on the wet grass, he could feel a warm stream of blood flowing from the bullet woundbelow his ribs. Still, he stared straight ahead.

　　The fog made it look like heaven here.

　　Raising his bloody hands to pray, he watched the raindrops caress his fingers, turning them whiteagain. As the droplets fell harder across his back and shoulders, he could feel his body disappearingbit by bit into the mist.

　　I am a ghost.

　　A breeze rustled past him, carrying the damp, earthy scent of n............