I'm lying on the top of the lockers when his soul calls out to me, my head resting on the one that I used to shove my books in every day before class.

I swing my legs out and jump down to the floor as soon as I feel and hear the call, transforming my sixty-one-year-old body into something more fitting as I sail through the air. When I'm not needed, I like to let myself grow older. It fools me into thinking I've lived a life. I look fifteen years old when my trainers touch to the floor. This body won't scare him, I don't think. It doesn't have marks or scars or anger behind the eyes. Back then, I was just a boy with a future. His soul calls out to me, becoming stronger as I make my way through the maze of corridors towards him.

Need to be safe, it sings. Need to get away, get away, away. Need to be safe. Need to be happy.

Souls are simple things, I've learned. They don't ask for much and they're done with you once they're whole. "Quit mewling," I think because being callous is the best way to go about these things. It's not like he asked for a friend, anyway.

They never do. So I'm not gonna be one.

The calling lets up when I stop outside a science classroom. My hands, slightly transparent, let the light through as I use them to support myself and press my face against the little window. The door, reluctantly, lets me. My eyes are immediately drawn to him. A boy at the back of the classroom, wearing a hoodie even though it's against the rules, his arms folded and his head slumped over so it looks like it's vanished completely from his shoulders.

The owner of the soul. I have to wait until the lesson ends and the kids start packing their shit away. I watch him almost the entire time and he never moves from his position throughout the lesson, except to occasionally stretch and roll his shoulders. When the door opens after the bell rings I stand back instinctually. Dead for forty-five years and part of me still hasn't accepted it.

The kid's file past and the owner of the soul is the last out. His hood is so low over his face that I can't see his eyes, just a mop of curls, and his shoulders are curved inwards. He practically reeks of misery. I follow him, students walking right through me. I don't notice.

My mind is on the soul now and the boy attached to it. I think the day's over because most of the students are heading for the exit. I lose the boy for a second, then catch sight of him again. He has headphones on and seems oblivious to the shoulders knocking him - hell, so he's oblivious to the whole world.

I run straight through about ten students - they don't even shudder - to catch up with him. He passes through the open doors and I stop at the threshold. Since the cigarette girl called - seven months and three weeks ago - I've nearly forgotten what it's like to have a physical body. Maybe I won't even need one this time. Maybe I won't even be allowed to leave the school. It wouldn't be the first time. But I'm losing the boy, so I step forward.

And it lets me. It gives me a body again.

So I run after him, relishing in the feeling of the sun on my real, human skin (even though it makes it shine a little) and the pounding of my feet on the gravel path, of the students seeing me out of the corner of their eyes - actually seeing me even though they still don't acknowledge me. He walks out of the school gates and I slow down, instead of following him on a quick walk. Don't want to scare him off.

When he's close enough, I reach out and tap his shoulder lightly, relishing in the fact that I can actually reach out to a person, touch them, communicate with them. He turns around and frowns at me. When I raise my eyebrows, he sighs and pulls his headphones down to his neck.

"Yeah?" He sounds impatient like he has somewhere to be, but his eyes look nervous. I've had decades to learn to read people - I know it's a front. His hood slips down along with his headphones, and I get a proper look at his face. Beneath the curls, which take up most of his forehead, he's objectively handsome. His skin is a dark shade of gold, the same tan as oak wood, and his eyes are a few shades darker, reminding me of burnt sienna paint. His eyebrows are low, and serious looking, and his nose is strong and slightly hooked at the end.

With all the curls, though, you wouldn't notice his eye-pleasing features unless you looked directly at him.

Like I am.

"Er... hello? Do you want something?" He glares at me and starts pulling his hood back up. He's certainly callous for somebody whose soul was crying out so desperately. "Um... yeah, yeah. What's your name?" I haven't spoken since the last soul and it comes out a little squeaky. I clear my throat.

"What's it to you?" he asks, scowling. I've learned from many years of practice that it's good to just get them "I'm a ghost" stuff out of the way.

Luckily, nobody's paying attention to us (I have that effect on people) so I doubt anybody will overhear or think anything of it if they do. "Er... hi, I'm Evan." I wave, like an idiot. "I'm sixty years old, even though I look fifteen, and I've been a ghost for forty-six years. I'm here to heal your soul."

It sounds like a bunch of hippie bullshit, but it's the truth, and I need to be transparent with him. Before I can hold my hand up and show him, his irritated face curls into a scowl and he darts forward before I can react, shoving my chest.

" The fuck? You one of Jack's friends, huh? Still, haven't had enough of messing with me? Fuck off." He raises his hands to shove me again. It's not like I haven't had this reaction before. I grab his hands and hold them up between us, face height, so he can get a good look at my wrists. A patch of sunlight catches my skin and it shimmers a little. Thank fuck only he can see it.

His body goes limp and I drop his wrists. He stares at my hands as they fall to my sides, even though in the shadow of the school walls they don't glow anymore. "You good, mate?" I say after a while. (I've had a while to perfect this generation's slang). We're practically alone now, and nobody came to break up our little spat. He's still staring at my hands.

"Yeah," he replies. Even though he's clearly shocked, his voice is still deep and steady. "You sure?" "I'm fine," he snaps, irritated again. Then he coughs, seeming embarrassed.

"So..." he says after a while. "You're a ghost, huh?" "Yup." "Why... why are you here?"

"Your soul called me," I say simply, even though I know it'll sound strange. "You asked for my help." His face twists in on itself. "I don't need your help," he mutters. "I think you do."

He looks like he wants to fight me, then sighs. His shoulders slump. "So... you're real? This isn't a prank? You haven't shot me up on mushrooms and started filming the next viral YouTube video?" I smirk. "'Fraid not." He scowls, but it's not in anger this time - it's like he's trying to figure everything out. He scratches the back of his neck

"So... do you want to go grab something to eat?" It's so unexpected that I can't help but laugh. He grins, looking sheepish when he realizes I'm not mocking him. "Will it make you happy?" I ask.

"Er... yes?" He coughs, and it's kinda cute. "I skipped lunch. I'm hungry." "Then okay."

He scratches his neck again, coughs then turns on his heel and starts walking down the road. Still smiling a little bit, I follow him. " My name's Theodore, by the way, " he calls over his shoulder. I smile wider and hurry to catch up with him.