The Bone of Memory

When the wind finally died down, a hollow creak echoed through the stillness of the cemetery, as if the trees were breaking beneath a ghostly footstep that didn't come from the surface, but from deep within the earth.

A pale hand, like a ghostly whisper, pushed out of Alaric's unmarked grave, leaving a trail of dampness on the stone. But it wasn't just a zombie return; It was even worse that the skeleton was immaculate, stripped of the flesh that had betrayed it centuries ago, and in its hollow chambers, there was a chilling wisdom, a hunger for blood, but for the stolen memories it rose with a ghostly grace, and each step it took was like a crackling sound that froze the air around it. It was not a swift end, but a long, lingering silence.

It moved slowly, as if time had stopped just to take in its presence, its target not the heart-wrenching guard who, frozen, stood guard at the chapel entrance. It moved toward him, but not to tear him apart. It stopped, noticing the uneven lines on its face, and the skeleton raised a hand with bony fingers.

It gently rested its hand on his forehead instead of caressing his chest. A chill deeper than any grave touched him, and his dearest memories, his wife's smile, his son's laughter, faded from his thoughts. swallowed by that insatiable osmore. When the man with the bones removed his hand, the guard was just a hollow figure, staring blankly and whispering.

Flesh decays, but bone keeps its memories and yearns for what you will soon forget.