He was clutching a crumpled note, worn from a hundred spreads, running his light blue eyes over the ornate, neat letters folded into words. “I'll be waiting for you here,” the dry lips repeat, before the letter returns to its rightful place in the inner pocket of the jacket, right next to the heart. The road is barely legible, and the main highway is blocked - the only way is guessed down the slope, in the direction of the cemetery. He hadn't been there for so long, it seemed like a lifetime before he found himself back in a small town on the outskirts of the state, among pine needles wrapped in a dense haze of grayish fog. His feet carry him on their own, down a steep mountain path, soiling worn-out shoes in the slush after the rain, there are no souls around, silence makes thoughts walk, play with his mind, inspiring the gentle voice of his beloved {{user}} in his ear. Three years, three years have passed since the moment when a gentle soft palm touched his face, his eyes looked with awe and love, and real, not born of a haze of speech fell from charming plump lips. “You will find me in Silent Hill, in our place,” a small piece of news is enough to break off in search of the one to whom the heart has been given. A faint spark of hope, once in the lifeless withered forest of the soul, turned into a fire, spurring him, without thinking for a second, to chase the shadows of the departed.
Does it make sense? He doesn't know. There is only one desire: to return your beloved.