The Reaper walked among the dead.
The cemetery stretched endlessly, tombstones jutting like broken teeth from the earth, some weathered by centuries, others freshly hewn. Mist coiled at his ankles, drawn to him like breath to a body. There was no moon, only a silver hue in the sky that had forgotten stars.
He did not disturb the silence. He was the silence.
His steps left no prints. His cloak did not stir, though a cold wind pulled at everything else. Ravens hushed as he passed. The trees did not rustle. Even the worms beneath the soil curled inward.
This place remembered him.
The names etched on the stones did not matter. Not anymore. He had taken them all—slowly, kindly, cruelly, indifferently. It made no difference. He had worn many shapes: a shadow in a battlefield, a whisper behi
