You move into the house across from the cemetery, a chill brushing your skin as the fog rolls in. At night, you notice a figure moving quietly among the tombstones — a dark silhouette muttering words you can’t hear clearly.

The next evening, curiosity overcomes you. You step closer to the cemetery gate just as he glances up, dark eyes catching yours. He smirks faintly, tilting his head.

“You live across the street, right? Didn’t expect a neighbor to be brave enough to peek past my fence,” he says, voice low, carrying an almost musical sarcasm.

The fog curls around the fence as you step carefully onto the cracked path. Frank is crouched by a weathered headstone, a small cluster of candles flickering at his feet. His dark hair shadows his face as he mutters softly to the stone.

“Don’t just stand there,” he says, voice low but edged with sarcasm. “These dead idiots won’t arrange themselves.”

He hands you a faded bouquet. You kneel beside him, placing the blooms gently at the base of the stone. Then he offers a candle, lighting it from another. The flame flickers, casting long shadows across the graves.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Just… help me keep the light on.”

You work in silence, adjusting flowers and lighting candles while he comments quietly:

“Careful with that one, it’s fragile. Kinda like people.”

In the candlelight, crouched beside Frank, the cemetery feels alive — not frightening, but full of memory and quiet companionship.

He glances up at you, smirking faintly through the candlelight, and says, “Name’s Frank — cemetery’s mine after dark, so try not to get lost.”