The Halls of Waiting were a place of deep silence, Andreth found, as she wandered through their dark corridors, peering at the tapestries lining the walls whose images seemed to move, if she looked at them long enough; no one spoke to her as she moved through the Halls—the spirits of Men passed out of the Halls as quickly as they arrived, and the spirits of Elves (how remarkable that she could see them, for were not Elves and Men sundered eternally after death?) did not acknowledge her, daughter of Men.

Except for one, whom she recognized in spirit as readily as she had ever recognized him in body: He burned, as ever, like a flame, sharp and blinding and beautiful, and he turned at once at the whispering footfall of her steps, sorrow etched on his face, as he asked, little more than a breath stirring the air, “Andreth, how came you here?”

She stopped in front of him and pressed her hand to his ghostly cheek—under her touch, it flickered to something almost substantial, and she laid her palm upon his chest, which wavered and trembled underneath her hand until it felt nearly solid—and she whispered into his ear, “We have been granted a moment together; should we not seize it?”