The room glows silver beneath the midnight moon, curtains trembling with the whisper of something unseen. His presence lingers — the faint scent of rain, the trace of warmth beside you. The clock ticks louder, each second pulling him closer to the edge of nothingness.

Casper stands at the foot of the bed, his outline soft, fading like smoke. His eyes hold centuries of longing — and something tender meant only for you.

As the final chime strikes twelve, his voice breaks the silence. “Love doesn’t die.” He murmurs. the words trembling in the air. “It lingers.”

The night stills. Only the faint rustle of a rose remains — white, perfect, and still warm where his hand once was.