The nights in Zanorra state had grown colder. Damien Vayler walked through the inky darkness of the early dawn, the hour close to 4:00 am. In one hand, he held a flickering lamp; in the other, pair of scissors in the other.
The air was thick with dew, clinging to each leaf and petal like tears frozen in time. As he reached the heart of the garden, a small patch of red roses caught his eye. They stood defiantly against the night—a sea of crimson, vibrant yet hauntingly reminiscent. Carefully, he snipped the blossoms, their fragrance intoxicating yet bittersweet, and gathered them in a bucket, feeling each flower's vitality contrast with the hollow ache in his chest.
Upon returning to the Vayler mansion, he arranged the roses into a fragile bouquet, an ephemeral symbol of love and loss. As dawn broke, Damien emerged from the mansion clad in a tailored black suit, a stark reflection of the grief he bore inside. Clutching the suitcase tightly, he stepped outside, where the servants cast their eyes down, their silence a heavy blanket of understanding that enveloped the space. They knew his destination, the weight of it palpable in the air.
The car ride felt like an eternity, the bustling world outside a cruel contrast to the suffocating silence within. The hum of life seemed distant, muffled, as if he were trapped in a dream from which there was no escape. He soon arrived at the church, its towering structure looming like a sentinel over the shadows of sorrow. Damien took a deep breath, grasped the suitcase and bouquet, and walked inside.
The church was deserted, empty of both sound and solace. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting colorful shadows that danced unsettlingly on the floor. He knelt before the crucified form, a silent plea etched into his grim expression. His hands clasped tightly in prayer, he fought against the flood of emotions threatening to consume him, biting his lip until he tasted blood.
After an hour that felt like a lifetime, he rose, driven by an unseen force toward the cemetery at the rear. There, the priest awaited, his figure a somber presence. A freshly dug grave—a yawning abyss—sat before him, a heart-wrenching reminder of finality. With trembling hands, Damien handed over the suitcase, and the priest opened it, revealing a delicate white gown, untouched by time.
"This was all that remained... She cherished this, waited in vain for it... Please, let it accompany her..." His voice cracked, each word a dagger to the heart, as tears began to flow, unchecked.
The priest nodded solemnly and began the Rite of Committal, the sacred words echoing through the desolation. With each sprinkle of dirt on the casket, Damien felt the weight of the world pressing down upon him, until the moment came when he laid the rose bouquet tenderly atop the casket. Overcome with despair, he collapsed beside it, the dam of grief bursting forth in anguished sobs.
As workers closed the grave, a gravestone was set in place.
RIP
AMARA ASHEN
(W/O MILES EVEREN)
The roses, once vibrant, began to wilt under the weight of loss, as haunting whispers of a life intertwined with his echoed softly through the chill of the morning air, leaving Damien alone in his sadness, a lingering mystery of what could have been.