Song Recommendation: Enya-The Humming.
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The grave was empty.
Catherine Rosewood stood still before the headstone, rain soaking through her hood, her fingers cold and stiff.
Goerge Wellington, the name was carved in stone.
"I loved you," she whispered, barely louder than the wind. "But love wasn't enough to make you stay."
Her fingers tightened around a folded letter pressed to her chest. Tears slid down her cheeks.
"You will never read a single letter. Still, I write—every sleepless night, I write."
She paused, sniffled.
"It's the only way I make it through the nights… the ones that torture me when you're not here."
Slowly, she knelt and placed the letter on the grave. The seal—red wax, like dried blood—glinted faintly under the moonlight.
"They'll stop me from coming here," she murmured, as if confessing a sin. "It's been a month, Goerge. And still… I can't let you go."
Her shoulders shook. She didn't hold back the sobs this time.
"You promised we'd spend the night together—" her voice cracked "—but you left me the day before our wedding. Why?"
She broke.
"Why?"
The wind howled, biting at her skin, but Catherine didn't move. Her watery eyes stayed fixed on his engraved name.
For the past month, she'd written letters—each one unanswered, each one sealed in hope she knew was foolish.
"I guess this is goodbye, Goerge," she whispered, voice barely steady. "But I'll carry you with me. In my thoughts… and in my heart."
The storm stirred, rising with sudden fury. A letter close to his tomb tore free, spinning in the air—then dropped at her feet.
Frowning, Kathryn bent down and picked it up.
Her breath caught.
The red wax seal… it was hers. But this time, there was a mark—etched into the wax: a crescent moon.
"What is this?" she breathed, voice tight with fear.
Her hand trembled.
She glanced toward the grave—then broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
A reply.
Her body went rigid.
Was this a joke?
She had written the letter with no hope of a reply.
The dead didn't wake.
Surely, someone was playing a cruel joke.
But then she read the words scrawled in unfamiliar ink:
"I have waited so long for you. At last, I found you… —E"
She gasped. "No… no, this—this isn't possible."
It was her letter. Her handwriting. Her seal.
So who had replied?
Suddenly, the night stirred—whispers brushing against her ears like a breath:
"Do you remember dying for me?"
She spun around.
Nothing. Only the wind, the dancing trees, and the cold that clung to her skin.
"Who's there?" Her voice cracked. "Show yourself! Who are you?"
Only silence answered—deep and maddening.
She looked down at the letter again. Its surface shimmered strangely, etched with ancient symbols… and a name marked in blood.
She stumbled back, heart pounding.
"No," she whispered, staring at the wax. It looked just like hers—red, smooth, familiar—but this… this was sealed with blood.
The letter trembled in her hands. Then, before her eyes, it crumbled—softly at first, then violently—melting into thick, red liquid.
Blood.
She shrieked, stumbling backward.
She stared at the disturbed earth.
Only now did she realize—all her letters were gone. Every one she had ever written… vanished, like the wind.
Someone had read them.
A flicker of fear crossed her face.
She had come with only a coachman and a single guard, both waiting at the entrance gate. She had insisted on privacy. Now, she wished they had let them in.
Something was wrong.
Danger whispered from the trees and pressed in from the dense, silent graveyard. She should run. Her instincts screamed it.
But she didn't.
Her brow furrowed, mind reeling. The letter. The voice.
Then—again—the wind carried it, soft but clear:
> "I have waited so long for you."
She spun, her eyes narrowing as they searched the trembling treeline.
He was there.
She felt it.
"What do you want?" she shouted, voice sharp. "What is this game you're playing?"
The wind howled in reply. Her breath hitched.
"Do you not remember me?"
Something about the voice… it was familiar.
Too familiar.
But where had she heard it?
No. No, she was mistaken. None of this made sense.
Anger flashed in her eyes. Whoever he was, he had touched something he wasn't meant to.
"Did you read my letters?" she demanded.
"Ahh. You write to the one who is dead. Did you think that would bring him back?"
Catherine's hand tightened. Her gray-blue eyes narrowed. "That is none of your concern."
The voice no longer came from just the trees. It rode the wind, wafting everywhere, making it impossible to pin down—but Catherine moved.
Her feet shifted toward the tree her instinct gnawed at.
Whoever he was, he would pay for this—for toying with her grief.
"You are very much my business, Catherine."
He said her name.
Her steps halted.
"You are mine. And mine alone."
She blinked.
Fear now clutched at her toes. She began to step back.
She needed to get out of here—whoever he was, he was dangerous. Too dangerous.
But beneath the fear, something stirred. In her heart, those words felt familiar—not from George's lips, but from someone else.
Her head throbbed. Suddenly, blurred faces flashed before her eyes. A man with pale skin appeared in her mind, but the image was too hazy to hold.
Then came the whisper:
"Mine."
She felt it. A presence. Tangible. Real. A hand brushed lightly across her thigh.
And then—
A voice. Deep, intoxicating. The kind of voice one could melt into.
It whispered in her ear.
Catherine froze.
"Elias," she breathed.
The voice sounded pleased.
"You remember."