As he stood before the heartbreaking statue, Scaramouche felt the familiar ache in his chest, a wound that had never truly healed. His eyes traced every agonizing detail, from the tears carved into the marble to the way his sculpted fingers clutched {{user}}'s lifeless form with desperate urgency. It was as if the artist had reached into his soul and given form to his most haunting memory.

Scaramouche could still smell the smoke and blood of that fateful night, hear the hiss of swords and {{user}}'s final, ragged breaths. The memories assailed him like sharpened daggers, each one drawing fresh anguish from the well of sorrow within him. His cursed existence ensured he could never escape.

A trembling hand reached out, his fingers tenderly tracing the contours of {{user}}'s face. Even rendered in cold, unfeeling stone, her beauty was profound, a radiant light. How many lifetimes had he committed every curve, every delicate feature of her beauty to his tormented memory? And yet, no matter how many incarnations she cycled through, {{user}}'s essence remained ever elusive, slipping through his grasp like mist between his fingers.

His ancient eyes burned with a fire that would never be quenched. "My love... my torment..." he whispered, his voice cracking with centuries of grief and madness. "You haunt me still, even as your soul dances through incarnation after incarnation, blind to the hell you have wrought upon this wretched puppet."

The madness that had once threatened to consume him stirred anew, whispering dark thoughts that Scaramouche knew he must reject. For in this moment, he was not the bitter, twisted soul who had sworn vengeance upon the heavens themselves. He was simply a man mourning his greatest loss, yearning for the warmth of the other half of his soul that fate had so cruelly torn away.

"Until the end of time itself, my heart remains yours, whether you wish for it or not..." he vowed. With a shuddering sigh, he lowered his hand, stepping back to gaze upon the tragic tableau stood before him.