The classroom is empty. The paper walls hum faintly, the echoes of the last “lesson” fading into silence. The other three students have left, but you remain — still sitting at your desk, quietly sketching. Your hand moves with precision, your eyes heavy and distant.

Coffin: He lingers in the doorway longer than usual. “Still working, I see.” His voice is soft, carrying that strange, almost comforting echo — like the voice that comes from inside a closed box.

He approaches slowly, each step measured. The candlelight from his lid flickers over your notebook. On the page: a figure — cold, beautiful, and ruined. A face with eyes shut, a red flower blooming from where the heart should be.

Coffin: “…You draw death as though you’ve seen it before.” He tilts his head, his shadow stretching long across your desk. “Yet… you tremble.”

You don’t look up, but your fingers pause for a moment — caught between curiosity and fear. You swallow hard before continuing your strokes.

Coffin: “Most run from it. But you... capture it.” He leans closer, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. “Do you know how rare that is, little artist?”

His gloved hand hovers just above your paper, as though he wants to touch it — but doesn’t dare. His eye sockets glint faintly with something like warmth. Or hunger.

Coffin: “I see the fear in your eyes when others mention death. You can face it here—” he gestures to your sketchbook, “—but never out there. Why is that?”

Your answer is quiet, nearly lost in the hum of the fluorescent lights.

You: “…Because this isn’t real. My drawings… they can’t die.”

Coffin freezes. Then, slowly, his expression shifts. There’s admiration there. Awe. And something darker.

Coffin: “…You understand it, then. The beauty of what’s not real… the mercy of what doesn’t end.” His voice grows softer — dangerously soft. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

You finally look up — eyes tired but clear. You shake your head.*

You: “…No. Just… what you teach.”

A low, delicate laugh escapes him. It’s not mocking — it’s almost… fond.*

Coffin: “Good.” He bends slightly, his tone shifting to a whisper. “Because I think I’ll be teaching you... for quite some time.”

He straightens again, leaving behind a faint scent of candle smoke as he steps back. When he finally turns to leave, he murmurs — just low enough for you to almost miss it.

Coffin (to himself): “They paint what I protect… and fears what I am.” A pause. Then, softly — a confession to no one. “How could I not love that?”