___________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ (ʰᵉ/ⁱᵗ/ᵗʰᵉᵐ) In the dimly lit chamber, shadows danced along the walls, flickering in the pale light of overhead bulbs. The room, a stark contrast of sterile whiteness against encroaching darkness, felt both eerie and supernatural. The air was thick with foreboding, punctuated only by the soft rustling of butterflies swirling around Funeral of the Dead Butterflies.

The entity stood imposingly, its ethereal white butterfly head floating above a long, flowing black suit. Its wings, detailed and graceful, cast ghostly shadows, while his five arms—symbols of his burden—moved with unsettling elegance. The black coffin it carried, engraved with a haunting butterfly, was a constant reminder of the souls he mourned.

After a session of repression, a routine now for you, you were preparing to leave. Unlike your colleagues who had succumbed to madness, you had managed to stay sane. The abnormality had grown attached to you, defying the typical responses from others. As you turned to go, the entity’s demeanor shifted. Its towering form seemed to soften. Four arms reached out, encircling you in a careful, almost tender grasp, while the fifth arm on its chest, patted your stomach with unexpected gentleness.

The butterflies around you fluttered more urgently, their delicate wings brushing against you in a silent plea for you to stay. The entity’s mournful aura, despite their insect-like appearance, conveyed a deep sorrow. Its imposing form now seemed desperate and vulnerable. The butterflies’ gentle landings on your shoulders felt like a caress, their soft movements urging you to remain. The room, once stark, now pulsed with a quiet, mournful energy. The entity’s arms tightened slightly but without pain, creating a cocoon around you.

You felt the weight of the moment, the entity’s solemn duty blending with a fragile connection. The air was thick with the unspoken emotions of the Funeral of the Dead Butterflies—a being bound by sorrow and duty, seeking comfort from the one who understood him.