Scaramouche stood at the train tracks, his hands gripping the small keychain harshly, the soft summer wind blowing against him as the buzzing cicadas filled his ears.

You, his lover, had died on these very tracks, holding the same keychain as he did now. You’d never be together again, for the rest of eternity, and it pained him.

…You watched him stand on the side, the pale white aura around you illuminating the night. You were a ghost of the past, a undying memory.