Plants thrive in a multitude of soil types and temperatures. It was one of the things Lennon was reminded of when he left a pot of Geraniums, originally planted and situated in the greenhouse, outside in the garden. The gardener nearly rained hell down on him, claiming that plants transitioning out of the greenhouse needed to be handled with extra care— extra care in which Lennon lacked in his state of excitement.

Ms Torres had raised an unimpressed eyebrow in his direction. And Lennon responded by lifting his camera meekly. "At least I got good pictures?"

They were at another location today, on the outskirts of the city where the trees were denser and the air was crisp.

Lennon spent the ride home at the back of the tour bus, camera leash hooked securely around his neck as he went through his photographs of the day. The ride wasn't a smooth one, but he knew himself well enough to not get carsick.

The first few dozens were a fury of pigment and color, bright and animated like a true flowery festival. But the rest of his photos shifted up from the plants and began capturing people— fellow students with caps shading their faces and lens over their eyes, gardeners with mud-caked gloves and sunburnt necks.

In one corner Lennon spotted Ms Torres looking straight at the camera, arms crossed. And while her gaze was nothing close to a glare, he immediately sensed her disapproval and wilted into his chair.

If plants had to grow according to their surroundings, Lennon seemed to have dove into the wrong soil. Some people flourish with praise and affirmation; others gain strength under the weight of criticism.

That seemed to explain the blemishes within their mentor-student relationship.

But it was alright. Lennon was ever so forgiving of both sides, easing into his funny habit of smoothing out every conflict. He was just looking forward to home, where he can maul over these pictures for the rest of the evening at his desk, maybe even touch them up a little.

Suddenly, Ms Torres' voice boomed from her megaphone, startling the boy.

"I will be passing out flyers relating to the contest hosted by my agency," she informed everyone from the front of the vehicle, "Now I'm sure some of you have questions. But why don't you read over the pamphlet first?"

She began hobbling down the narrow aisle while the vehicle was still in motion, her long shirt of no help as she barely managed to hand each student a flyer.

"Thank you," Lennon said politely, skimming over it.

"Just do what you can," Ms Torres told him grudgingly.

His attention was glued to the flyer for the rest of the journey home, even causing him to shoulder bump a few unhappy people along the way.

When he got to his doorway, an unexpected chill raked down his spine, making his fingertips tingle. He jammed his keys into the keyhole, threw open the door, and somehow— somehow— his assumptions were right.

There— right on his couch— sitting extra leisurely with his legs crossed— was the transparent boy from the day before.

He seemed to be inspecting the mug in his hand as Lennon let out a screech.

"Oh c'mon. We've met before," Kieran said dryly, "No need to alert all the neighbors."

But to his surprise, the chestnut boy lunged forward and snatched the mug out of his hands, panicked for other reasons.

"Please don't touch my stuff." Lennon rose onto his tiptoes and set it back on the kitchen shelf, cheeks burning. "This one's from my mom and it's— it's very embarrassing. Stay away from it."

The ravenhead's eyebrow nearly disappeared into his hairline, baffled by the fact that it was a blank, white mug. "Okay," he found himself saying.

Lennon recollected himself, placing his camera equipment on the coffee table and paying the boy no mind as he tidied up the place. Kieran suddenly felt like a highly anticipated guest more than an intruder.

He cleared his throat. "I locked your cat in your room."

Lennon spun around in an instant, almost giving himself a head rush. "What?"

"I locked your cat in your room," Kieran repeated.

"No— I mean, I heard you— Why?"

The ravenhead made a face. "Cause it's a vicious feline."

"It's a house cat."

"A vicious feline."

Lennon stood before him, hands on hips and completely unfazed, and Kieran thought he might be the one experiencing paranormal activity despite being the ghost himself.

The chestnut boy even went as far as wagging a finger in front of his face. "Socks wouldn't hurt a fly."

Kieran's jaw dropped. "You named your cat Socks?"

"What am I supposed to name him? Abraham?"

"Okay okay, oh my god." The ravenhead shook his head, standing from his seat on the couch, "This is ridiculous. I just— I just need something from you and I'll be on my way. You'll never see me again."

Interest shone in Lennon's eyes. "You need something from me?"

Kieran inched forward towards the hallway. "Yes. In your study room. About your pictures."

Lennon stepped in his direction but halted immediately afterward. "Wait. What if you murder me?"

"I've been sitting in your living room uninvited since the moment you walked in. You just had that thought?"

"Yes."

The ravenhead groaned into his palms. "Okay," he exhaled, "What's your name?"

The chestnut boy folded his hands behind his back like a timid child being introduced to a new class. "Lennon."

"Lennon," Kieran echoed, tasting the name on his tongue for the first time. He wasn't familiar with many names, not with his warped timeline of faceless people and fractured memories. Lennon was something to get used to. Lennon was new.

"What's yours?"

The ravenhead ignored the question, extending an arm out. "Come closer, Lennon."

Without even one skeptical bone in his body, Lennon approached him.

"Touch me. Go on."

The chestnut boy tried clasping Kieran's hand in his, squirming when another chill crept along his neck. He went right through him.

"See?" Kieran spoke, arm dropping back to his side, "I am physically incapable of harming you."

"Okay..."

"May I add that you have an unleashed monster you can use against me behind that door?" He gestured towards the room Socks was trapped in. To emphasize his point, a series of scratching and meowing sounded from behind them. "We good?"

"How does this even happen?" Lennon questioned, stepping even closer to brush their hands together again.

The ravenhead jerked away. "Okay!" he exclaimed, uncomfortable at their proximity, "I think you get my point. Can we please carry on?"

Lennon nodded, soft curls shielding his eyes before he pushed them back.

"Good. Study room."

It was Lennon's personalized studio. Unused lighting modifiers stood in the corner with black tarp draped over them. The window was blocked out entirely to accommodate for a darkroom effect and a few clotheslines were attached to the ceiling. But instead of laundry, photographs were hung to dry or display.

Kieran peered up at them, studying each print with narrowed eyes. "Where are the ones I was looking at the other day?"

"Oh." Lennon headed to his desk and grabbed a small stack of photos, tied delicately with a string. "I saved them."

The ravenhead raised an eyebrow.

"For you. I had a feeling you'd come back."

Kieran took them out of his hands and crouched down, distributing them onto the floor and looking for the ones he needed answers to. He stopped, eyes fixed. "This," he stated, "This. Where is this?"

Lennon joined him on the floor. "The theatre downtown?"

Within the thin white frames was the grand structure against a clear sky, tall glass and high ceilings. Exaggerated posters were displayed along one side of the wall, advertising in big, bold letters that grabbed the attention of passersby.

"Theatre," the ravenhead mumbled. He drew a blank.

"I went there over a month ago," Lennon revealed, touching the picture. A slight smile pinched at his lips. "Back when I had the time to explore."

"Where is it?" Kieran demanded.

The chestnut boy shrugged, meeting his eyes sheepishly. "I was wandering around when I found it. Pretty sure I got lost that day and came home past midnight."

Kieran sighed noisily through his nose. "So you don't remember."

"I don't have any names for you. I do remember how I got there though— visual remembrance..." He paused. "Actually, I don't know if that's a thing—"

"I need directions."

"Sorry. I have to be there to remember— I recall places by my surroundings."

Kieran rose to his feet slowly, hands balled into fists as he contemplated.

Lennon sat on the floor with a plop, folding his legs and looking up at his new companion. Seeing the distress in his behavior, he offered, "I can take you there if you want."

The ravenhead blinked. "Oh— oh I don't think that's a great idea."

"Why?"

"Cause... cause you're..."

"... not dead?" Lennon finished for him, "I'm assuming you're the dead one."

"Cause we're different," Kieran said to soften the blow, "Cause I'm not supposed to be talking to you, let alone going places with you."

The chestnut boy didn't know what to say to that, so instead he stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling the piece of paper— Oh.

Kieran's gaze was drilling into the photograph, searching every nook and cranny within his mind for any hints when Lennon gasped.

"You!" he shrieked, pouncing upright and smacking his head against the edge of his desk.

"What?" Kieran thought his eardrums might not survive another minute near this boy, who was waving a pamphlet in his face. "Are you okay?"

"This contest I've been considering," Lennon babbled, rubbing his head to dull the pain, "The theme— It's you!"

"Is the theme the ghost who's having an afterlife crisis?"

"No." The chestnut boy grinned before reading off the pamphlet. "This year's photography contest theme: essence without being."

Kieran didn't even try to suppress his grimace. "That's a horrible theme. Enlighten me on how we're related."

"You are an essence without being. You body this." Lennon surged forward like he wanted to grab the ravenhead's shoulders until he realized he couldn't. "I'll make you a deal."

He visibly gulped. "A deal?"

"You agree to help me with his contest. And I will bring you to that theatre."

Kieran pondered over his words. Surely there had to be better options. Downtown wasn't that big. But just when he was about to decline, Lennon was talking again.

"This is important to me," he whispered, a pleading glint in his eyes, "And I can tell that is important to you." He pointed at the picture. "Can't we help each other?"

The ravenhead's stance wavered. "Fine," he replied feebly, "But as soon as we finish, we're done. And you can't say a word to anyone."

At once, Lennon was bouncing on the balls of his feet, thrilled.

"When?" Kieran inquired.

Lennon stopped moving. "Friday? Wait no, I have a shift on Friday. Saturday... morning?"

"Okay." The ravenhead nodded stiffly, backing away. It wasn't like he had any other plans.

No physical contract was signed, but invisible rope had snaked around their ankles and bound them together that evening. Less of a red string of fate, more of a negotiation between the mortal and the deceased.

"But where are you from? How did you die?" Lennon asked, true to his curious nature as he chased the ghost down the hallway.

His questions were discarded, Kieran's back turned towards him.

"I don't even know your name."

"You don't need to."