She looked at him, her face scrunched in what would be puzzlement were she alive. Harold was less sure what it was in a spirit. “You've seen angels?”
“Of course.” Harold took a large bowl out of the kitchen cupboard and placed it on the floor in front of Lucy. “Haven't you? You must have, surely, given your current state of being.” Gently, he took the box of chocolate stars from Lucy and upended it into the bowl. Most of the stars had already turned to some form of bready paste but the ones at the top had fared better and still retained some of their shape. The milk had turned the consistency of porridge.
“No.” Lucy looked on the verge of tears. “I wanted them in the box.”
“But the box has distorted from the weight of the milk, sweetie. Sooner or later it will tip over altogether.”
“I wanted them in the box.”
He sighed and gave it back to her. “Have it your own way.”
She began to transfer the contents of the bowl back into the box, one spoonful at a time.