Blue Rose in the Quiet Graveyard

The morning fog drifts slowly through the silent cemetery, softening the rows of stone crosses behind him. In the pale gray light, his black hair—streaked with electric blue—falls messily around his face, the wolf ears atop his head flicking slightly with the cold breeze. A silver chain rests against the dark leather of his jacket, and the choker around his neck glints faintly. Yet the most striking thing isn’t the gothic style, or even the piercing violet eyes that seem to look straight through the quiet air. It’s the blue rose in his hand. He holds it carefully, almost gently, as if it carries a memory too fragile to break. For a long moment, he simply watches you. Then, with a faint, crooked smile, he lifts the flower slightly toward you. “Found this on the way here,” he murmurs. “…Thought you might like it.” 🌙