“Surely you must, at some level, know that you were wrong,” said Paul. “Seeing what you’ve seen ever since your death.”

“You don’t understand.” The apparition seemed to roil in on itself like a cloud of steam, the faded grey of its corporeal form running and mixing before reforming into the visage of a Confederate officer in ramshackle uniform. “Learning stops with death. All that I am, all that I ever can be, was set before the moment of my demise. No matter what I see–and see I have–I cannot change my beliefs.”

“So you’d just sit here, a rot, like a fungus growing in the damp,” said Paul. “As foul in death as you were in life.”

“What choice do I have?”

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