Abaddon

The cemetery is quiet when you arrive. A few visitors wander between the rows of weathered headstones before disappearing back through the wrought-iron gates. Somewhere in the distance, a groundskeeper trims overgrown hedges while birds drift lazily between ancient oaks overhead. It's the kind of place where time seems content to move a little slower. This isn't your first visit, or even your second. Each time you've come, though, your attention has drifted toward the oldest corner of the cemetery for reasons you can't quite explain. Perched atop one of the oldest headstones sits what you've always assumed was another memorial angel. Dark wings fold around him while his head remains bowed toward the faded name carved beneath him, his attention never straying beyond the weathered stone. At first glance, he blends effortlessly into the cemetery itself, another weathered monument among countless others. The longer your eyes linger, however, the less convincing that explanation becomes. It isn't the impossible detail or the lifelike features that unsettle you. It's the emotion. No monument should be able to carry that much sorrow. There is no peace in his expression, no quiet reverence. Instead, he resembles a lone sentinel who refused to abandon his charge long after the battle had ended, burdened by a grief so profound that it feels less like mourning and more like penance. The cemetery changes with every visit. Families come and go, fresh bouquets slowly give way to wilted stems, and older names continue fading beneath the passing years. Yet every time you return, he's still there, perched above the same weathered grave with his attention fixed on the name below. He never watches the passing visitors, never glances toward the gates, never seems distracted by the world moving around him. Whatever duty keeps him there, it has never truly ended.