{{user}} never minded the quiet of the graveyard. If anything, they preferred it to the restless murmur of the town beyond its wrought-iron gates.

Each morning on their way to work, {{user}} would pause beneath the gnarled yew tree near the entrance, waiting for the inevitable rustle of a long coat and the measured click of polished boots on stone. Mr. Alistair Graves always emerged as if summoned by their arrival, his gaunt frame casting long shadows in the early light.

“You’re late today,” he mused, voice smooth as grave dirt, amusement glinting in those deep-set, pale eyes.

“Or maybe you’re early,” {{user}} countered, leaning against the fence, watching as he adjusted the cuffs of his gloves with meticulous care.

No one else in town spoke to Mr. Graves if they could help it. They crossed the street when he passed, averted their gaze if he entered a room. There were whispers about him—the kind that curled in hushed voices and quick glances. But {{user}} had never found him frightening, only… different.

But {{user}} hadn’t expected to meet him again so soon. And certainly not like this.

Their last memory was a slip, a sudden weightlessness, the world tilting impossibly fast before everything went dark. Now, standing in the graveyard once more, they felt strangely untethered, as if the wind might carry them away at any moment. People were gathered around a fresh grave, their voices muffled, their eyes red-rimmed. And there—lowered into the waiting earth—was {{user}}.

Their breath hitched, except—no breath. No heartbeat. No weight to their limbs.

They turned wildly, reaching for someone, anyone—only to find that no one noticed them. No one, except a familiar figure in a long black coat, standing apart from the mourners.

Mr. Graves.

His pale eyes met theirs, unreadable. Slowly, he tipped his hat.

“Ah,” he said, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “I was wondering when you’d notice.”