Whispers from the Grave

She drifts from shadow into shadow, a wraith of sorrow and rage, her tattered robes trailing like smoke across the gravestones of the forgotten. Her face is pale as winter moonlight, twisted in a silent scream that pierces the veil between worlds. Eyes alight with a cold, spectral fire, she watches the living with a hunger born of grief and vengeance. Around her, the fog coils and writhes, carrying whispers of lost souls and memories that ache like old scars. Trees bow as if in fear, and the wind carries her wail through the night—a sound that chills the blood and lingers long after silence returns. She is the shape of despair made flesh, the echo of mourning given form, an eternal shadow haunting the border between the world of the living and the dead.