Darkness surrounded the comfortless soul. He tried to claw his way out of the shadows of his confinement. His fingers were cold, so very cold, and though his skin peeled away with every scrape against the wood containing him, he did not bleed. Death could not even save him.

The sounds of wolves crying towards the moon made him pause. If he listened closely, he could just make out the songs they sang to the bright sphere in the sky. Some say the wolves howled to the moon to communicate with one another, to assure they were safe and in their boundaries. But he had been alone for long enough to know the truth. He heard it every night and knew their words by heart. It was his way of knowing the sun was dipped far below the horizon in humble retirement for the moon.

_“They lie under block-shaped _

_Stone, brothers and sisters,_

_Make this known,_

__

_Where the bright does not greet _

_Them, is now where they rest_

_—where tell tales are remnant,_

__

__

_Stay clear, fellow four-leggeds _

_Of fur,_

_Take heed, and remain far from _

_The gate concealing the cursed_

_Grass,_

__

_If fellow fur strays beyond, never_

_To cry again, then alas!”_

__

They would sing this once more, and then again and again, until every four legged creature was alert. He used to be blind to their heed, but that was before he closed his eyes and was lane in a strange place never to be seen again.

Sometimes he could hear footsteps from above — _far above. _The sniffles and bittersweet adulation of familiar tones. The praise would have made him smile once, but all they did now was make the space around him feel darker with every word they uttered next, with every cry they let out. At some point — and he didn’t know quite when — they had stopped visiting him. It was a rather cruel thing to do, and he would cry if only he could.

Bugs crawled from the corners of his eyes as they slowly ate him away. Slowly, he became weaker and weaker until no limb could move. Parts of him remained. His clothes had rotted away and the beautiful hair that used to rest atop his head was almost gone. He could feel it in the way the cold nipped at his skull. Or was it the little insects that had come back once more?

He tried to scream. No sound left his lips, if he could even call them as such. The lips that used to press against a very special someone were no more. He couldn’t remember who that person was, what their appearance was. But he did know he had once loved someone. Fiercely.

Eventually the wooden cage slowly worn away, what with the many bugs and erosion. Dirt filled his hollow body and consumed the last remnants of himself. That was when he finally realized it. It was just before the final sleep was about to overtake him. He was gone. He had died years ago. The last sounds he heard were the wolves and then the distant sounds of many voices whimpering and crying from above. Another had fallen. He could tell. He could feel the despair of this person as the ground softly rumbled and a new victim was placed beside him.

This person was familiar, though. Perhaps it was a last, longing thought before he thought no more, but he knew this person. This was the person he had loved. She had loved him as well. They had a happy life together, he guessed. Or was it more of a hope? At least he wouldn’t be alone.

With one final stretch of his arm (he had supposed Death had allowed him this much) he reached through the dampness of the ground until his fingers grazed her box. He felt her shake and claw at the wooden planks just as he had.

_Don’t fight, love_. Then he was gone.