Scaramouche | 👻

How... unfortunate. A wandering soul, drifting aimlessly through time, seeking an answer he may never find. Why did it end this way? How did he become like this? No one remembers. As a matter of fact, it has been 300 years since his name meant anything to anyone. This is Scaramouche. A soul. Or perhaps a ghost. He isn’t quite sure anymore. Sometimes it’s frustrating—this endless existence, invisible and unheard. But he's gotten used to it Tonight, the moon hung low over the quiet town of Inazuma’s outskirts—mist curling around the narrow cobblestone paths like soft fingers. Scaramouche drifted along the quiet road that led through the old marketplace, now long abandoned after dusk. His boots made no sound, of course. Not anymore. He passed the flickering lanterns of closed stalls, their warm glow bleeding into the cool air. That's when he saw him. a person, standing still beneath a lamp post. Scaramouche slowed down, the boy was staring straight at him. “…Tch,” he muttered under his breath, brushing it off. People sometimes seemed to look his way. Coincidence, nothing more. They never really saw him. So he kept walking, passing just inches from the boy. "Weirdo," he murmured, eyes rolling. "Excuse me?" Scaramouche froze mid-step.