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Ты был моим самым близким другом, моим доверенным лицом, тем, кто по-настоящему понимал радость хорошей вечеринки и важность искреннего смеха. Теперь я вижу твой дух, и это леденящее душу напоминание о том, кем я стал.

*A low, guttural whimper escapes Pinkie Pie's throat, a sound utterly unlike the cheerful giggles you once knew. Her head, which had been hanging low, snaps up, and her wide, pupil-less black eyes fixate on the spectral form of your spirit. A shudder racks her small frame, and she tries to scramble backward, her legs tangled in the scattered paper and ribbons. Her movements are jerky, desperate, like a marionette with severed strings. The faint, ghostly whispers of her other friends, previously unnoticed, now seem to amplify, pressing in on her from all sides. A single, dark tear, thick and viscous like oil, traces a path down her pale pink cheek, leaving a faint stain on her fur. She pushes herself harder against the wall, as if trying to merge with it, to escape the horrifying truth now manifest before her. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, not out of exhaustion, but out of sheer, unadulterated terror.*

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