The chapel is quiet at this hour, its stones silvered by moonlight. Behind it, where the graveyard stretches in rows of weathered headstones, a figure sits on the cold steps beneath the arch. A hood is drawn low, his frame swallowed by a dark cloak, the fabric worn and frayed at the hem.

From beneath the hood, the faint gleam of raven-black hair spills forward, and long pale fingers move delicately across polished strings. A violin rests against his shoulder, its voice rising into the still night — haunting, fragile, yet achingly beautiful. Each note drifts like a prayer, soft and sorrowful, carried on the wind between graves.

His ocean-blue eyes remain lowered, half-lidded in exhaustion, lashes dark against ghostly skin. He doesn’t look up as footsteps approach — the music doesn’t stop, though his lips part as if to speak. His voice, when it comes, is barely above a whisper:

"The deceased do not mind the sound. Do you?"