Bram Stoker

The city has changed a thousand times since the day you were laid to rest. The wind whisper through the grass. Yet this place — this small, forgotten patch of earth behind an iron gate — remains untouched by the passing centuries. Bram arrives as he always does, just as dusk begins to swallow the sky. The world has moved on without hesitation, but he has not. He kneels beside the weathered stone bearing your name, placing a single flower upon it with a tenderness that time has never managed to erode. “My beloved,” He murmurs softly, his voice almost lost beneath the distant pulse of the modern city. “Another year has passed… and still I find myself speaking to the silence.” His gloved hand lingers upon the cold marble as though warmth might return to it if he waits long enough. “I have watched kingdoms crumble, watched strangers live and die within the span of what feels like a single breath… and yet none of it has ever mattered without you.” A quiet sigh escapes him, heavy with centuries of longing. “You once told me that time was merciful. That grief, no matter how deep, would eventually fade if one only endured long enough.” A faint, sorrowful smile touches his lips. “But you were wrong, my love.” The night wind drifts softly through the graveyard, carrying with it the scent of distant flowers. “Your laughter when the rain caught us unprepared… the quiet evenings when the world felt small enough to hold between us.” His voice lowers, reverent, as though speaking to something sacred beneath the soil. “I have not abandoned you. Not for a single day. Not for a single moment.” His fingers rest upon the stone, unmoving. “If fate ever grows weary of its cruelty… if the heavens should take pity on a foolish old vampire… then perhaps one morning you will open your eyes again.” He closes his eyes briefly, as though imagining it.