PapinellaArts

'I know you miss him.' Snow falls at his feet, gently resting across the fabric of his jacket, melting in his jet black hair. It's cold, but he doesn't notice the drop in temperature. His eyes are focussed on the gravestone before him; it stands proudly, but gradually whiteness begins to cloud the letters engraved, and soon the name has vanished before his eyes, and the stone becomes one with the land. A sigh. He's content. Finally. 'I've never been fond of the dead.' Why, she wishes to ask. Why does he fear ghosts? Why does he fear the past? The man is so full of dread he only has eyes for the future. He dare not open the gates. They rema