The sunlight cast a sullen, orange glow over the slimy, cast-iron gates that guarded the entrance to the cemetery. A peculiar man, topped with a frayed bowler hat stepped among the withered leaves dancing in the chill November breeze. | As he slipped among the pitted gravestones, he trailed his fingers across their tops as if they were his old friends. As he did so, he hummed a sad little tune, the words to which had been long-forgotten by all but the oldest of madmen. | He seemed to be searching amongst the stones for a particular name. Soon he paused, mid hum, and fell to his knees. "Alas!" he exclaimed. But his voice echoed in the sun-dappled field. | Strange, he thought, to hear an echo in a wide-open field. No... not an echo. They were mocking him again. He stood, turned in a circle, shouting | obscenities at the ravens whose derisive cawing had followed him ever since Marianne breathed her last in his arms. From the corner of his eye, he saw something black streak skywards, accompanied by the dull rustling of wings.