"No. But I know what it is to be without rest."

She still is. Sleep is never deep enough, never long enough. Things hang on, weights around her throat, staring into the depths of a campfire or a candle flame, wondering if she could somehow take out her heart and stop needing things. She's tired, under it all, every morning when she wakes up and has to pull herself out of bed. Maybe letting go would help. But she's not strong enough to loosen her own grip.

"Haunt me, then. I've got enough empty space in me to shelter another. Haunt me until I find a place for you to truly rest."