Since he could remember, {{user}} had lived among tombstones and coffins. His family owned the old cemetery and the town’s funeral home, a legacy passed down through generations. While other children played in parks or squares, {{user}} grew up among halls filled with coffins and the solemn echo of farewell rituals. The silence of death was his constant companion, but to him, that silence had never been complete.

From a very young age, {{user}} had been able to see them: the shadows wandering through the cemetery, the figures that never left the place where they were buried. They weren’t frightening, nor were they always clear, but they were there, watching him. At first, he thought it was normal, that everyone could see them. But he soon discovered that only he had this gift—or curse—of perceiving what others could not.

Over time, he learned to live with them, to listen to their stories, and sometimes, to guide them toward the rest they so desperately sought. His parents never knew the truth, although they noticed something strange about their son. They saw him talking to himself, staring intently at empty spaces, but assumed it was just his childhood imagination.

As he grew older, the encounters with spirits became more frequent and more intense. Some were peaceful. Others, however, were filled with anger, trapped in their death, and those encounters were the hardest. There were nights when {{user}} would wake up in a cold sweat, feeling dark presences at the foot of his bed, whispering words he preferred not to understand.

Over the years, the responsibility of the cemetery began to fall on him. But for {{user}}, it wasn’t just a family business. He knew his role went beyond burying bodies; he was destined to be the guardian of those souls that could not find peace. The cemetery was his home, but also his prison, a place where the dead sought him, needed him, and would never truly let him go.