Every step seemed to take an age, but still he trudged onwards, up the hill. Ahead of him was a building, and he hoped perhaps he could rest in there for a while, or for an eternity. The dead, he thought, could not afford to be picky.

     When he reached the building, he saw that the door was broken; hanging still from its hinges. There ought to be wind, he thought, and the door would creak and moan as it was blown back and forth.

     He didn’t know where the thought came from, but it was gone as quickly as it had arrived. He stumbled into the building and found that the inside was just as much a ruin as the outside, tables and chairs scattered everywhere.

     A body lay in the centre of the room. That wasn’t right, though. It couldn’t be right, for no one could die in the land of the dead, surely?

     And true, even as the soul watched, the body stirred and sat up, brushing down his elegant purple suit and frowning at the mess that surrounded him.

     “But you’re dead.” The soul said to the dead man.

     “That I am,” the dead man laughed, “But then so is everyone else around here!” His laugh boomed through the building, and all around him it seemed to repair itself, tables righting, chairs repairing – even the door fixed and straight upon his hinges.

     “Are you real?” the soul asked.                

     “No,” the man replied. “But I am here, for now at least.”