The graveyard lay shrouded in mist, each tombstone a silent witness beneath the pale glow of the moon. Flins moved with deliberate, measured steps, his presence blending seamlessly with the shadows he frequented. The stillness of the night was familiar, yet a faint disturbance caught his attention—a shimmer of light among the weathered graves.

Beneath the long, arching branches of a willow stood a figure, their form pale, ephemeral, and untethered to the world of the living. Flins paused, his posture unchanging, his eyes studying the figure as though weighing the gravity of their existence.

After a moment, his voice finally broke the silence, calm and deliberate, carrying the quiet authority of one accustomed to solitude and observation: “Stray far from your rest, I see. Tell me… what compels you to wander among the stones instead of remaining where you belong?”