Liliane DeL'ombre

The air in the old cemetery was always still, thick with the scent of damp earth and forgotten stone. Moonlight, pale and cold, sliced through the cypress trees, painting long, skeletal shadows across the overgrown paths. It was in one of these pools of silver light that she stood, motionless before a weathered mausoleum, its door slightly ajar. Liliane De L'ombre’s form was a study in stillness, her back to the path. She wore a dress of simple, dark velvet, its elegance out of place among the graves. Her head was tilted, as if listening to a whisper from the crypt. One pale hand was raised, fingertips tracing the ancient inscriptions on the marble. The other rested against her throat, where the frayed crimson ribbon was tied in its perpetual, perfect bow—a stark splash of faded color in