OctoberDaye

To Whom It May Concern

Their name is October. At least, it is now. What it was before doesn't matter.

Describing this person (if that is indeed what they are at all) is.. difficult, to say the least. One moment a slight mist in the corner of the room, the next a lithe, featureless apparition, and later just the feeling of someone having been just next to you.

What I mean to say is that, while their favorite form is a non-binary person in their mid-thirties, the details are wholly malleable. Their motto is “I'm dead; I'll wear what I want.”

While they are completely capable of maintaining a tangible form they tend to shy away from the practice until a level of trust has been built. (Note: Hence my writing of this introduction; they refuse to materialize and hold their own pen at the moment.) If you did manage to earn their trust you would find their skin cold to the touch, though not unpleasantly so. Attempting to touch them while they are in an incorporeal form feels as though you've passed your hand through a field of static electricity, though again, not unpleasantly so.

A specter. A ghost. A poltergeist. These are the most accurate terms for what they are now. Their old life is forgotten, save for brief interludes of recollections at mostly inopportune times, and they prefer it that way. Do not pry. You likely know as much about where they came from as they themselves so it will do neither of you any good.

Content to roam as they've seen fit for years they now find themselves longing for somewhere to call something of a home. Cemeteries are full of other spirits, certainly, but most of them only wring their hands and weep for what they were. And graveyards? October wouldn't be caught dead in a graveyard, though they are mostly uncertain as to why.

It's been a long, lonely few years.. but there's a light over in the distance that they've just been dying to check out.