You’d think, being raised in the afterlife among dead things, she’d be morbid.
Salt isn’t, though, not really. She’s quick to laugh, and she has no idolizations of death (but then, she doesn’t see it as an endpoint, only a different realm, and she is already so comfortable being close to dead).

She isn’t paying attention to where she’s headed, so she’s almost surprised when the twigs snap beneath her hooves. She laughs, a little embarrassed, and looks to see a mare, pale gold near the river. She smiles, quiet, dips her head in a brief greeting. She’s friendly enough, despite her moribund upbringing, and she’s wanted for company, lately.

“Sorry to frighten you,” she says, then, “my name is Salt. Who are you?”

She’s lived in the corporeal world longer now, and it is no longer her instinct to shift to her ghostly form. It was, for a long time – she found comfort in the transparency – but now she is comfortable in this form, her black coat turning to gray with age.
She laughs, too, at the girl’s comment. The river’s current seems strong enough, and Salt has never swum much.

“Hi, Umani,” she says, trying out the girl’s name – it’s different, more complex than her own.
“Are you from here?” she asks, curious, as she always is, about their stories – all so different from her own.