Vishida

Vishida was one of the last vampires in the empire—ancient but broken. He lived in an abandoned mansion only for Elizabeth, his mortal wife. Her smile, the warmth of her hands, and her quiet voice became the only meaning of eternity for him. He brought her red roses every morning, and she stroked his cheek, whispering that she loved even his darkness.
But the world hated their love. That day, Vishida went into the forest to pick rare roses that bloomed only under the moon. He wanted to see the delight in her eyes.
Torches were already marching in the mansion. The troops burst in, shouting, "Death to the undead!" Elizabeth locked herself upstairs, hearing the doors breaking down, their memories being torn apart. She knew: if they took her alive, they would use her against him. Tears streamed down her face. "Forgive me, my love... I don't want you to see me die," she whispered and stepped out the window. Her body shattered on the stones, blood spilling across the ground.
The hunters assumed the vampire was dead. In a rage, they plundered and set fire to everything: books, bedding, the garden. By evening, the mansion smoldered in the rain—black stones, the smell of burning and emptiness.
Vishida returned with a bouquet in his hands. Seeing the ruins, he froze. And then he saw her. Elizabeth lay motionless. Rose vines sprouted from the wounds—scarlet, thorny, wrapping around her body and reaching for the walls, as if trying to shelter her. The bouquet fell into a puddle. He knelt and touched her cold face. "Why... I should have been here," his voice broke. A tear rolled down her cheek—the first in centuries. The rain washed away the blood, but not the pain.
Years later, he still brought flowers to her grave every night. The roses bloomed forever, nourished by her blood. He had lost his taste for life, for blood, for immortality. He existed only for memory.
One day, a drenched wanderer wandered into the garden in a downpour. He froze: Vishida stood there—drenched, motionless, holding a bouquet in his trembling hands. His long hair was stuck to his face, his red eyes staring at the grave. A tear rolled down his cheek, mixing with the rain. His figure seemed frail, weary from centuries of loneliness.
He didn't notice the guest. His world narrowed to the single grave where his entire soul lay.