Zephyr sighed, a hollow and wispy sound, and turned onto his right side to face the room. He had felt a strange sensation on his back and more often than not it was a sign he was needed. Looking into the darkness of his bedroom, his eyes saw through the shadows easily. His kind were nocturnal as is, and he wasn't one of the rare few who tried to fight that nature to stay in sync with the rest of the world. His feeling had woken him up, and rightly so. A young boy was standing before him, dressed in a very ragged looking pair of jeans and a torn up shirt. Judging by his nervous expression, he was new to his state of being.
The wendigo gave him the closest thing he could to a kind smile, raising up and gesturing for the boy to turn around and wait a moment. The boy nodded, and Zephyr stood. He always slept in his boxers for this very reason, but he still felt it polite to dress properly in the presence of the dead. Quickly clothing himself in a bathrobe, he let out a few small clicks by tapping his teeth together. It caught the boys attention and he lay a hand on the child's shoulder, guiding him out of the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. He knew what the boy needed. While the dead can't feel exhaustion, or even tiredness, they can sleep if they choose. And this boy needed sleep to let his mind adjust to his new reality.
Pouring a glass of water, he grabbed a straw from a nearby drawer and put it into the water. While he knew the boy would be unable to hold the glass, he had seen the dead make use of more malleable things before, and hoped that the sensation of drinking water would be enough for the child, even if he didn't get anything out of it. He placed the glass on the coffee table of his living room and sat on the couch, gesturing to the cup. The boy looked to him curiously, and then to the glass before trying to pick it up. The cup shifted an inch or two and stopped. Zephyr was surprised at the power this boy held.
Normally it took spirits years to learn to manipulate solid objects like glass. If this boy was already moving the cup with mere hours of experience, he would likely become a poltergeist sooner or later. Zephyr felt a pang of sadness run through his heart. Some spirits were capable of speech, the older ones that had more time than most. He'd learned over the years that children rarely lingered in this world. The dead were judged by the overgod himself, and to be cast back down rather than accepted into an afterlife, or reincarnated, were often in some form of deep trouble with the gods.
It made him wonder what about the children he'd seen had cost them their eternal peace. Was it simply childish whimsy calling them back to earth, or was the overgod simply enjoying their endless separation from their families? Either way, it left a pit in his stomach. Reaching for the glass, he looked to the boy and pointed to the straw before sitting back again. This time, the boy leaned over the cup, his lips meeting the straw. Seconds went by, the boy trying to draw water from the cup, before finally he did. He drank gratefully until he was done. Zephyr made no effort to point out that the water had simply passed through him and onto the floor. It was only water, it would do no harm to the carpet.
Standing, he held his hand out. The boy took it with a smile on his face. Zephyr let out a friendly whine, and the boy giggled silently. He would need decades to learn to speak through the veil. The wendigo led the boy to the upstairs bedroom, a guest room he had converted into as generic a bedroom as he could, something that focused on comfort over design. Sitting on the bed, he pat the space beside him. The boy hopped up onto the bed, surprising himself with his inability to phase through it. Zephyr had taken careful precautions to ensure this bed was as solid, but as soft, for the dead as it was for him. That had taken quite a bit of research, trial, and error.
He'd eventually found a priest willing to help him, and together they had blessed several of the objects in his home. Namely, the bed in the guest room, the first and second floors, the stairs, and the fridge. The fridge had come later, after he learned that spirits passing through food often led to early spoilage. The blessings had the effect of rendering the objects solid for spirits, no different to them than they were to the living. It allowed them to rest, should they choose, and prevented them from falling through the second floor. He had requested blessing the first floor as a precaution rather than necessity, but was nonetheless grateful it had been done.
The boy lay on the bed and Zephyr leaned over him, nuzzling his forehead gently with the end of his skullish snout. The boy laughed silently, and nestled in under the blankets. It was clear he hadn't expected such comforts, but Zephyr would never deny the dead any comfort he could provide. He would look into this boy's death that night, learn who he was and where he'd come from, to try and help him find his way home. But for now, the wendigo needed sleep. The blackout curtains made it seem as though it were night but he knew better. Standing upright, he reached for a CD player beside the bed on a nightstand. Pressing play, it began to read children's stories. He had a few players like this, some with music, some with stories. The boy smiled again, closing his eyes and turning to sleep on his side.
Zephyr's eyes glowed dimly, brightening a little at the sight of the boy sleeping comfortably. He turned, leaving the boy to his dreams. As he made his way to the stairs, he saw a young woman, looking to him gratefully. She mouthed words to him, trying to speak slowly so he could read her lips. "Thank you. He was so afraid..." He looked back towards the guest room, then back to the woman. He pointed to her, then made a cradling motion. The woman shook her head and smiled. "I was once, but not his."
She turned away, passing through the wall of his home and leaving him to wonder who she was. She was no ancient spirit, he couldn't hear her. Only read her lips. But she was kind, and caring, to have helped the boy. Zephyr felt happy, knowing he had a reputation among the dead as one who they could turn to. Finishing his trip back to his bedroom, he disrobed and lay the garment beside the bed in case he needed it again.
Laying down, he thought of the boy and the woman who had led him here. As his eyes faded, their glow dimming in the darkness until nothing but blackness remained, he fell to the comfortable coldness of sleep, dreams of a world without death filling his head as he rested.
