"Poor ghost," she whispered.
Her pity stung. I didn't want it.
"What I don't remember I can't regret. Probably I won't even remember
you." But I lied. I knew that although I forgot everything else,
unregretting because unremembered, I could not bear to lose this girl,
that my ghost would walk restless forever if I forgot her. I looked
across the fire at Kyla, cross-legged in the faint light--only a few
coals in the brazier. She had removed her sexless outer clothing, and
wore some clinging garment, as simple as a child's smock and curiously
appealing. There was still a little ridge of bandage visible beneath it
and a random memory, not mine, remarked in the back corners of my brain
that with the cut improperly sutured there would be a visible scar.
_Visible to whom?_