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Beneath a veiled moon she waits, lace trembling over bone. Once she crossed these marble paths in laughter; now her gown whispers along the stones, gathering the cold the way a widow gathers memories. In her hands, roses have withered to shadow. No tears remain—only the fine dust of grief along the hollows of her smile. They laid him under the oldest cedar, and every midnight she returns, a figure the statues lean toward, as if carved ears could catch her vow.
When the hour turns, the dark turns with it. The roses loosen, the ground hums faintly, and she inclines her skull as though listening for a heartbeat beneath the marble. The night draws close like a shawl, the pathways lengthen, and somewhere below the names and dates a response stirs. Not life. Not yet. But enough to keep her moving, soft as velvet, through the corridors of the dead.
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