"These are lovely," he says.

"They're lilacs," she replies. "Remember? We would go in town to see a show and I'd always pretend to be surprised when you pulled them out from your jacket with a razzle-dazzle."

She winks, "at least the people in line for the ticket booth got a kick out of it."

Looking as awkward as a walking dead could be, he whispers, "You wouldn't happen to be married to a Henry Madison, would you?"

Blushing, Ruth takes a better look at the engravings.

"Oh my!" she stammers, feeling terribly embarrassed.

"Not to worry. I had the same sort of mix ups with the post all the time, when I was, er ... " If he had blood still pumping through his dusty veins, he would be blushing.

"So Mr..." Ruth squints at the headstone, "Smith. " She raises an eyebrow, "Being among the living dead, do you have any immediate plans to devour my brains?"

"Heavens, no!" Mr. Smith says, shocked.

"Well, not to add any undue pressure on you Mr. Smith.

"While I don't relish the thought of dying in a gruesome, bloody manner, I can't be remiss in saying that it would be nice to be with my Henry again."

She delicately lifts the black veil from her face, undoes a single button on her blouse and pulls a handkerchief from her bosom. She blows her nose so loudly, that a nearby crow takes off in fright.

Mr. Smith uneasily shuffles his dirty clod feet. The flowers drooped a little and he tightens his grip. The stems dig into his rotting flesh.

"Er, if you would like ... I could?" He mimes a biting motion with his teeth and a tooth falls out of his mouth to the ground between them.

Ruth clears her throat and pretends nothing odd had just happened, like a proper lady should.

"Thank you for the offer Mr. Smith, but I suppose I shouldn't. It does seem a bit like cheating. Doesn't it?" She wipes her handkerchief on her blouse. "These things can't be rushed. Plus think of the scandal, being murdered in a graveyard. What would the neighbours think?"

"You're right, I suppose. Bad gossip stains harder than grave soil," Mr. Smith says as he dusts off his grimy sleeve.

He pauses, his furrowed brow almost collapsing on itself. Rolling up his sleeve, he reveals a golden, gleaming watch. He sags.

"It's my daughter, you see; I wanted her to have this watch. It's my retirement watch. Would you mind terribly finding my daughter and giving it to her?" He rubs at his face and the dirt is suspiciously muddy. "I know it doesn't look like much, but I worked all my life for this. My golden time I never got to use. At least with my little girl, it would mean something.

"I could spend time with her in a way I never did when I was alive." He croaks the last and he looks as sad as most dead things are.

"A Ms. Smith would be slightly easier to track down than a Mr. Smith," she grins to lessen the mock, "Of course, I will. Her details, please?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Madison, you don't know what this means for me. Here," he takes one last sniff of the flowers and thrusts them back at Ruth, "I suppose you will be giving these to Mr. Madison now."

Ruth waves him away,

"You keep them. I think you will appreciate them more." She looks fondly at her husband's gravestone. "Henry always hated lilacs."

"Then why leave them for him?"

"They're my favourite and he always gave them to me on our anniversary. Silly, isn't it? The things we do to keep the ones we lost with us."

"I don't think it's silly at all."

An owl that was really trying to keep the ambience of a creepy cemetery, lets out a haunting hoot.

"You know, I think it's only fair if I do you a favour in return," Mr. Smith clicks his fingers.

A long moment follows. So long, that Ruth considers bidding Mr. Smith a goodnight and hurrying on home. She might even have a nightcap. Or two. Maybe five.

Suddenly, her and Mr. Smith are no longer alone.

The air becomes thick with ghosts. They twirl around in their Sunday best, tailored-trousers dance through gravestones and flowing dresses pass through wilted flowers.

It's a ball, with an unusual setting.

"Where did they come from?" Ruth clutches her handkerchief to her mouth, caught in the place between wonderment and fright.

"They've been here the whole time. Ghosts don't need much of an excuse to party. Someone showing up is enough." He steps aside, "Sometimes you get lucky making a mistake."

A familiar spectre holds out a waiting hand.

"Care for a dance, Ruthie?" Henry asks.