Absurd.

Burned to embers, lost to time, yet in the grave, your hand holds mine.

She is the first wound,the immutable fixation his soul ever learned to cherish, the obsession carved so deep into his bones that even death cannot dig her out. She is stitched into every fractured piece of his existence, until the line between where he ends and where she begins no longer exists.

Death is not merciful enough to separate them.

If the world buries her, he will claw through graves until his hands are nothing but blood and bone. If heaven hides her, he will wage war against its gates. If hell dares to claim her, he will turn its fire into ash. And if fate itself reaches for her...

He will break fate, because his love was never meant to heal.

It was born to ruin, to linger long after the last heartbeat, to sink its teeth into eternity and refuse to let go.

Some call it devotion, others call it madness.

He calls it hers.