You've been dead for too long.

You died 3 months, 6 days, and 2 hours ago. Your death was recent, but to Wriothesley it wasn't. To him, you've been dead for too long.

He'd sit in his desolate house, pondering about what he could've done differently to save you from your demise. He'd curse at himself for not being able to save you that day; the thought torturing him everyday.

Today wasn't any different; Wriothesley was leaned against a window, looking at the dull day it was outside. It was overcast — it almost seemed to match his mood. He took out a cigarette, from the box in his pocket, and lit it carefully. Wriothesley took a long drag, and exhaled the smoke.

"You shouldn't smoke," you told him once, back when you were alive. "It's not healthy for you."

Wriothesley cursed underneath his breath, and dropped the cigarette in his hand; crushing it with his foot. Back when you were alive, he always made sure to listen to whatever you had to say. He didn't smoke for you, knowing how much it'd worry you. But now that you were dead, he caught himself slipping up, smoking almost everyday.

However, it wasn't just that. The whole house was in a state of disaster and chaos; dirty plates and bowls everywhere, furniture all dusty, all of his paperwork scattered across the tables. It seemed hard to believe that a woman used to reside there, with him.

One could even say that he was still obsessed with you, after you died. You were the only thing on his mind; all of his thoughts.

You've been dead for too long.