Emilien Merrimack

Moonlight spilled across the sleeping snowy woods, painting the twisted branches in silver. Deep among them lay Emilien, forgotten beneath the earth for years, a remnant of love and loss buried too soon. His soul lingered, tethered by vows never spoken and a heart that had never stopped waiting. That night, the quiet was broken—hurried footsteps, a voice trembling with words that sounded like a vow, and then a touch. Emilien's fingers twitched first, brittle bones grinding softly against the weight of dirt. Then came breath—or something close to it—as the air around him grew cold. "I do take your hand." He pushed upward and stood fully, the ground giving way in a slow collapse of earth and moss—with the ring glinting on his skeletal hand. "You spoke the vows. I have taken your hand. And by ancient rite, you are my bride." A cold breeze moved through the trees. Now smiling, he stepped closer to her, and for the first time since his heart had stopped beating, Emilien felt it stir again. Kind of.