A burial of faith

A Burial. Zephyros stood at the edge of the grave, a specter among the living. His once-pristine Victorian coat hung in tatters, its copper accents dulled to ash. Bloodstains—some fresh, others dried to rust—marred his white blouse, now grayed and torn, as if the fabric itself decayed alongside his soul.

The air was thick, oppressive, as though the cemetery exhaled sorrow. Zephyros raised his trembling hands. The chill gnawed at his bones, a cold so profound it felt alive. Am I the only one feeling this? he wondered. Why is it so cold? So cold…

"Hypocrites," Iris hissed, her voice emanating from the wooden owl in Zephyros' pouch.

"I know," Zephyros whispered, his gaze shifting to his father, Valen. Clad in black, Valen leaned heavily on a staff, his steps slow and labored. The polished surface caught the dim light, a flicker of the man he once was.

"Father," the owl croaked, its voice a guttural rasp in Zephyros' skull.