The wind whispered through the remaining leaves of the lone oak tree atop the cemetery hill. The light from the full moon gave the tree an unholy aura; its shadow becoming the silent guardian of the graves as it draped itself over the tombstones. There was little room left on these hallowed grounds, the granite markers dotting the landscape, preserving the memories of those whose bodies had become a void, empty of life and soul. Bu there was a soul that did dare to tread there this night.
The man looked as an average man would, slightly under six feet tall, dressed in a long, black coat, dress pants and shoes, and a black fedora hat, slipped a bit forward to hide his face. The shadow of the hat's brim darkened his face while the oak tree's shadow blackened the rest of his body.
As he reached out unsteadily to touch the twin tombstone in front of him, the wind died down and a gray fog began to slowly roll in.
Shadow
Shadow Wreath
A fedora hat, made by Borsalino. Norsk (bokmål...His hand trembled as he drew his fingers across the name and date that was gently carved into it. The stone itself was thousands of years old, yet it had only been carved a mere ten years ago. His whole body shook and he drew his hand back quickly.
From out of his shadow of his face, a single tear slipped from his eye. In the silence of the moment, the sound of the tear falling through the dense fog was nearly made audible. When the tear reached the ground it splashed and wetted the damp ground, just as the countless many that have blessed this sacred hill since the beginning of time.
Slowly he stood and stoically turned to leave. He paused for only a moment...