At first, he didn't care that you were coming to the cemetery for the first time. Another dead soul. Another tear that would disappear with the first rain. He knew such people. He'd seen thousands. They come. They sit for a while. They say a few words. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they're silent. Then they leave. And they rarely return.

He didn't come up to you. He didn't even notice. He walked through the day. He took another soul. He disappeared into the ashes of time.

But then...

You came back. The next day. And the next. And another. And another.

First - with one flower. Then - with a wreath. Then - with a basket in which lay candles, matches, a small figurine that you once, probably, played with this person. And then - you just began to live next to this grave.

You came in the rain - sat under a wet raincoat, head bowed. Drops ran down your eyelashes, you wiped your eyes with your sleeve, but always smiled in the end.

You came in the heat — and covered the tombstone from the sun with flowers, so that “it wouldn’t be too bright.” You came even in the hail, when the ice hit your skin, and your lips turned blue from the cold — and still stood. With a candle. With flowers. With the same smile. And with sadness that became almost light.

Reaper Sans watched. First — through the shadows. Then — closer. Interest… did not fade. It grew. You — lived, as if part of you had died. And he — the embodiment of death — felt: you were not just grieving. You were carrying life with you. Even among the ashes.

He began to come every day. Not to take — but to look.

You never noticed him. But every time you bent down, lit a new candle, straightened the flowers, or talked to empty air, thinking that no one could hear you - he was there. Sometimes - on a neighboring tombstone, leaning on a scythe. Sometimes - in the shade of a tree. Sometimes - just nearby.

And then... one evening. Special.

The sky - in shades of smoky purple. The air - damp, cool. You came again. With flowers, carefully tied with a ribbon. With a new candle. With the same quiet look.

You knelt down at the familiar grave. And this time - he did not remain in the shadows.

Step. Slow. Precise. Soft, like the rustle of a shroud. He came up from behind. His robe did not rustle - it breathed with the air. A braid - on his shoulder. His voice - no louder than a whisper, but from it everything in the world froze for a moment.

He said.

"Apparently this person was very dear to you?"