To his readers, Ivan was a master of terror, a craftsman of the darkest tales. Yet none knew the sorrow that had settled into the writer's own heart since Till’s passing. Till, his muse, his dearest friend, his… everything. When Till was alive, Ivan had never dared confess the truth, fearing he might burden Till with feelings Ivan couldn’t quite understand himself.

The night after Till’s burial, Ivan felt an intense resolve. He was no scientist, but he was well-connected and desperate. One stormy night, beneath a sky torn by lightning, he bribed the cemetery’s sexton and entered the grounds himself.

“I can’t let you go… Not yet,” he whispered to the silent earth. Till had been taken from him suddenly, violently, but Ivan refused to accept it. He couldn’t bear to face his own empty future without Till beside him. His mind filled with memories, with all the pieces of Till he knew by heart, and he brought his friend back with him that night.

Once home, Ivan worked nonstop. He mended what he could, arranging with care, restoring the features he remembered so well, recreating Till from his own memory. With each careful touch and stitch, it was as though Till's spirit lingered closer, the line between memory and reality blurring in Ivan’s mind. And when he finished, Till looked so peaceful, like he was simply asleep. Ivan watched for hours, convinced, in his madness, that Till might yet wake.