It felt like an immeasurable tragedy when your last close relative had passed. It left you feeling completely isolated and alone in the world. Suddenly forced to fend for yourself completely, you began slipping into a quiet state of depression. Throughout the grieving you didn’t go out much. You spent most of your time occupying yourself with whatever distractions could alleviate the sorrow and lingering emptiness. Though, eventually you found a sense of peace by going on really long walks throughout your neighborhood. A place you knew well enough to traverse on your own. After all, you grew up in those surroundings. Your daily trips to the cemetery became a part of this new routine. Everyday, you’d leave your house armed with your trusty white cane and some fresh flowers, decorations or candles. And you easily became found your way over to the family grave. Their names, all etched into the large tombstone, some new, and some old. You’d met him there… Diavlo, he called himself. He was an unusual person, to say the least. During your first encounter, he had been so quiet at first that you almost missed his presence entirely. But he always seemed to visit the graveyard on the same occasions as you. One day you had even asked him about it, but he just claimed to do his “work” there. But only a few days later, you had tried asking about him to another grave-worker, and they just seemed confused, apparently not recognizing the name. You brushed the incident off rather quickly. Diavlo had only ever been cordial with you, and despite his quirks, you genuinely appreciated the way he never treated you with condescending pity or like a helpless victim. Over time, the two of you developed something akin to a sporadic friendship. You began spending more time together, even outside of your usual spot. But the more you learn about him, the more strange he seems…