Every Monday, about an hour after dawn, Erebus leaves his apartment carrying nothing but a habit he no longer remembers forming.

  At that hour, the city is not yet a city.

  The streets are empty, the lights dim, the air cold enough to remind him that he is awake—even if he doesn't feel like it.

  He reaches the cemetery.

  It isn't frightening.

  It is quiet—too quiet.

  A silence that neither comforts nor disturbs. It simply exists.

  A simple grave.

  No decoration.

  No polished stone.

  No name large enough to demand attention.

  Erebus replaces the old flowers with new ones.

  He arranges them slowly, with more care than necessary, as if the act itself carries meaning.

  He sits.

  He does not say a name.

  Names feel heavy here—

  as if speaking one would make things real.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  In a low voice, almost a whisper, he says,

  "Today passed quickly."

  He pauses.

  Then adds,

  "I'm trying... or at least, trying not to fail."

  He isn't sure whether he expects an answer.

  Still, he remains seated, as though silence itself might respond.

  The wind moves through the trees.

  Leaves shift.

  Nothing else speaks.

  Eventually, he stands and turns to leave.

  That's when he sees the blind man.

  As before, the man sits on a wooden chair near the inner fence of the cemetery—

  not close enough to be intrusive,

  not far enough to be forgotten.

  He appears to be in his mid-sixties.

  His face carries no obvious wisdom, no comforting kindness.

  Just something unreadable—

  as if he knows more than he says, and sees no reason to say it.

  Erebus approaches and sits at the opposite end of the bench, leaving a small space between them.

  The blind man speaks calmly,

  "You're late today."

  Erebus looks at the ground.

  "There were holes in the road," he says.

  "I didn't want to rush."

  The man falls silent.

  So does Erebus.

  The quiet between them feels familiar—

  like an unspoken agreement not to say more than necessary.

  After a long moment, the blind man speaks again, without changing his tone.

  "He left me."

  Erebus stiffens.

  It's the first complete sentence he's ever heard from him that isn't a greeting.

  He doesn't ask who.

  He doesn't ask why.

  He stays where he is.

  A faint sound escapes the man—something like a broken hum.

  "Hm... hm... hm..."

  It isn't laughter.

  It isn't crying.

  It is something in between—something unsettling.

  A shiver runs through Erebus.

  Not fear.

  But not comfort either.

  He stands sooner than he intended.

  "I should go," he says.

  Then, without looking directly at the man,

  "Good morning."

  He leaves the cemetery, his steps quicker than before,

  as if the place has suddenly grown heavier.

  Back in his apartment, everything is exactly as he left it—

  except for a small piece of paper on the table.

  He stops.

  He does not remember placing it there.

  He picks it up and reads:

  "You're about to do something.

  Don't try to do it."

  No signature.

  No name.

  At the bottom, a strange symbol is written with careful precision:

  影 九?十五

  Erebus stares at it.

  He does not understand what it means.

  But it does not feel like a simple warning.

  He places the paper back on the table and sits down.

  For the first time in a long while,

  his apartment does not feel like a place to rest.

  It feels like a place that is waiting.