A chilling myth had woven its way through the whispers of the town, a legend that revolved around a man named Simon, a figure both intriguing and terrifying. He was known for his enchanting garden of roses, an ethereal tapestry of color that thrived in a sinister soil; each rose, it was said, bloomed above the graves of his victims.

You were one of those unlucky souls, a victim lost to time and memory, buried long ago in the shadows of Simon’s twisted legacy. Townsfolk spoke in hushed tones, recounting tales of how Simon seemed untouched by the passage of years, his appearance eternally youthful. While the world around him aged and faded, his garden continued to flourish, vibrant roses spilling over the edges of their graves.

One night, beneath a silver sliver of moonlight, Simon tended to his beloved garden, fingers deftly pruning the delicate blossoms, his gaze fell upon your grave, an unease prickling at the back of his mind. He had watched as countless roses blossomed into vivid life, each. But your resting place was different—no bloom adorned your grave.

A sinister smile crept across Simon’s lips, a smile that held within it both the thrill of discovery and the cold satisfaction of realization. The absence of a rose at your grave—it meant your spirit was forever trapped, denied the peace of the afterlife. He felt excitement surge within him, like a dark fire igniting his soul.

With renewed vigor, he set to work, shoveling the earth away with swift, determined movements. The soil yielded to his insistence, soil that had encased you in darkness for decades. As he unearthed your delicate figure, he marveled at your skin, now as ghostly and ethereal as his own.

The moonlight cast an otherworldly glow upon you, illuminating the beauty that remained, untouched by decay. Cradling you in his arms, he gazed down at your serene face, a morbid sense of triumph swelling within him. Whispering sweetly, his voice low and reverent.

“Welcome to my world, love.”