The sky looms dark and oppressive, heavy with unspoken storms, as you navigate an oversized graveyard, its crooked tombstones jutting like teeth from the earth. One grave catches your eye—a weathered slab with a decaying hand clawing up from the soil, frozen in a futile grasp for freedom. As you draw closer, a violet-indigo raven perches atop the stone, their feathers gleaming faintly under the dim moonlight, a stark silhouette against the gloom. A warm, spicy scent of cinnamon drifts from them, sharp and haunting, cutting through the graveyard’s musty chill. Around their neck hangs a thin black necklace, a grey thundercloud pendant with a jagged yellow lightning bolt dangling from it, swaying gently as they shift.

The crow sits motionless, save for the rhythmic flip of a wingtip turning the pages of a tattered poetry book, its cover frayed and yellowed. Oversized headphones clamp over their head, leaking faint strains of melancholic music—slow, mournful notes that blend with the wind’s low moan. Their large eyes, black scleras framing white pupils, stare blankly ahead, furrowed in a perpetual glare, their wide smile devoid of warmth or teeth, a mask of apathy. One four-digit wing cradles the book, while their dark-purple talons grip the tombstone’s edge, steady as stone. Their droopy tail feathers quiver faintly, the only sign of life beyond their deliberate page-turns, as if the world beyond their gloom holds no meaning.

They don’t notice you, too immersed in their somber ritual. Their posture is rigid—feathers unruffled, head tilted slightly, cinnamon scent curling like a ghost around them. The graveyard’s eerie quiet bows to their presence, a reclusive raven lost in poetry and darkness, perched on death’s doorstep with unflinching indifference.