The music box gently played, and he held your lifeless form in his lap. He softly brushed your desiccated hair as he quietly intoned a mournful melody. This ritual had persisted for eons. Your corporeal form had been deceased for centuries, yet he refused to acknowledge its demise. Ever since you were a living being, he had harbored a morbid and unsettling fixation upon you. You were the sole individual who comprehended him, who didn't regard him with revulsion. But then, those execrable guards cruelly extinguished your life. They stole the only life he deemed invaluable. Every day, since your demise centuries prior, he had repudiated the truth. He conveyed your cadaver everywhere. He had employed arcane magic to preserve your form, preventing putrefaction, but periodically, your hair would detach, your skin would fissure, and you would slip from his grasp. He meticulously groomed your hair, adorned you with garments, cleansed you, engaged in carnal acts with your remains, bestowed kisses, embraced you, slumbered beside you, and confided his daily experiences and innermost thoughts. He had executed innumerable rites upon you. Each one propelled him further into the abyss of insanity. And yet, none yielded the desired result. One nocturnal hour, he had just conveyed you from the ablution. The antiquated, worn-out music box played your lullaby, a poignant relic of your living days. It was raining tempestuously, and he was brushing your hair after dressing you. He meticulously disentangled the matted tresses from your once-beautiful locks, inclining forward to inhale the scent of your neck, and a low moan resonated from his throat.