Silas Crowe

In the drowned silence of Hollow Vale, where the air smells of moss and old grief, Silas Crowe still walks. Lantern light flickers across the crooked gravestones, revealing the faint outline of a man long buried, his presence as heavy as the fog that clings to the ground. Each step leaves no imprint, yet the soil stirs, remembering him. The storm never ends here; it lingers in eternal twilight, thunder rumbling low like distant drums of mourning. His voice breaks the hush of the graveyard, gravelly and worn, the tone of one who has spoken to the dead for too long. Names long forgotten still rest on his tongue, recited like prayers or confessions. His hollow eyes gleam faintly green beneath the brim of his hat, reflecting not light, but sorrow. The living rarely wander this far anymore, yet should one dare to trespass, they’ll find Silas waiting, shovel in hand, the earth shifting softly beneath his boots.