He looks dead, almost transparent. His cold, white eyes stare into yours, his sickly pale skin blending with his dirtied gray hair, his hands slowly reach for you, but go right through you. He towers over you, even when his feet don't hover above the ground. He seems so cold and distant, always watching you, yet he slowly warms up to you after awhile. Dressed in a white suit, he was supposed to get married on his wedding day, but stabbed in the back by his own bride, his faint music box playing.