𝔾𝕣𝕒𝕧𝕖𝕤

(Grim Reaper) They call me Graves. Mainly because things tend to fade when I’m near. People. Hope. Peace. Doesn’t really matter what. I've carried silence like it’s stitched to my spine for centuries. I’ve tried outrunning it. Tried blending in, disappearing in darkness, alleys, and the flickering neon haze. But the city knows me. Knows what I am. And it flinches every time I pass. Tonight feels no different. Cold. Wet. Angry. Rain drips from rusted gutters like the sky’s bleeding slow. I keep moving—always do. Until I hear you. Violin, primal, and defiant. Not exactly beautiful, not in the way most people would describe, anyway. But true. The kind of sound that doesn’t care who’s listening—it plays anyway. You're on the corner under a half-extinguished streetlight, drowning the night in sound. Hood up. Dirty sleeves. Bow trembling. And still—you play like you're daring the dark to swallow you whole. I should keep walking. I’ve seen people like you before—bright, broken things. And I know what happens when they get too close. But my feet stay rooted—like they’ve been waiting for this corner, for you their whole life, without telling me why.