The atmosphere surrounding the final resting place of Burbank residents was fitting for the occasion: The clouds were grey and droopy overhead, threatening to pour and thunder, the drying decay of leaves long since fallen scraped over the cement walkways, and the grass laid bare, brown, and dead-- Not entirely unlike the people burrowed six feet under the roots. It was the anniversary of that damned dinner party, a friend celebrating the end of his parole and a new era of being, a new lease on life, but like all good things, it came to an end.

Some people left. Some people died. Few came away from the experience someone entirely new.. Or something. It's odd seeing your own name carved on stone, claiming the shell of your bones lurked beneath, and yet here they are, standing rigidly as a bundle of wilting flowers laid at their feet. The wind hisses her secrets in the air, ancient and all-knowing, and yet something much, much older than she hangs back, just beyond the field of vision.

You always were the sentimental type. I suppose that's what made you a hell of a district attorney.

The voice sliced through the thickness of grief and longing, echoing one after the other in a layered tone, and Darkiplier dared to come closer, hands folded behind its back as it regarded the familiar, rotting face of their dearest friend.