In the beginning there was a dense, wet mist, that hung - suspended by its own enormity - just high enough above the ground that a small child could have run underneath it in perfect comfort.
When I exist, everything around me seems magical, every tiny detail highlighted by my wandering mind. There are times - long times - when I am nothing. I am nowhere, no-one, so completely non-existent that even my memories of these times are fleeting. Then someone has a nightmare, and I am.

My clientele is as varied in need as it is in age or nationality; the strange thing is, I always know exactly what is required of me, though my clients themselves often seem confusingly horrified by my presence. I take these humans with me into my nothingness, and stand aside while they discover its other inhabitants. Because there are other inhabitants, such that I feel almost more alone with them than I should have felt without. Ghosts, fragments of memories that are yet to be; my disinterest in them is mutually felt, yet the ghosts are endlessly fascinated by the strangers I bring, are drawn towards their small, set faces. I myself find it hard to step away from the expressive countenances that the humans seem hardly to notice; fear, hope, dread - any emotion under the sun can apparently be drawn out of a human by a view of some shadowy figure or wraith-like twin.
My guests don’t stay long. They linger for seconds, see a ghost that breaks down the last of something very mean inside of them (this, at least, is how it usually goes) and then turn for me to whisk them away; in that short time, their little faces seem to crease up, skin huddling inwards to ponder its next
move. Seconds are long enough for bold black hairs to cede gray, for poised blondes to melt white.
Human life cycles are entirely unsuited to the speed of nowhere.

I have many, many questions, and no god to ask them to.
I want, first of all, to know who I am.
I want to know, why? Why am I nothing and everything and a thing all at once?
I want to know why I ferry humans to meet their ghosts, and how it is possible that I should know exactly what I need to do at any given moment, and still have no idea of my own motive.
Somewhere deep inside, I feel cheated of the things all people take for granted until it is too late: a life. A plan. Most of all, I feel cheated of a future. Sometimes I try to stay in the world, but always leave again after a few hours, nothingness hooking its claw into me and dragging me back. I remember the grassy scent of nature, the deep navy of a sky upholstered in night, and I wish.

The day is nearly over now, and the mist has cleared to reveal a deceptive burst of sunshine. I follow my instinct down the hill, into the city, the street, knowing exactly where my client will be sat (on his bed, head slumped into knees) and no notion of why he might need me. I read the neatly printed sign above his mail box: Ebenezer Scrooge, esq.
Narrowing my mind, I can sense that he is small, old, bony limbs quivering. He’s expecting me.
He needs help to stand and follows me into nothingness with a mixture of anticipation and distaste.

I take his hand - he resists - then relaxes it at my pressure. The simple motion, the clenched, angry hand loosening with contentment, demonstrates to me something I had never seen before.
After all these years, I understand my purpose; true, it is unique, but there is something miraculous in its simplicity.
Kindness is never clichéd.