They call us ghosts. Sometimes, the words they choose are something less morbid—spirits, they whisper. Memories. Specters. When it comes down to it, they all mean one thing: Forgotten.
We are many things, but perhaps forgotten is the most appropriate. We are those who died alone, or abandoned, or too soon; those whose loved ones would rather forget than have to feel pain at our passing. Stuck between one world and the next, we linger—fading, without destination, empty.
But there are whispers. Our hearts call out a name unknown to us, and eventually He comes. Shadow-black paws carry Him between worlds, and with souls grasped like newborn kits between His teeth He leads us to where our souls should be. To peace, to rest.
That is His name, and our hearts know Him like a well-loved brother when He finally comes for us. He says nothing, but our feet walk His footsteps as though we have always known the way. He leads, and we…
… We are going home.
words by http://sixpennies.tumblr.com/