Corruption
The god of death was curiously silent for a few painstaking moments and when Proserpina was about to give up, thinking that he was not going to answer, his voice came out as a sigh… like a mournful whisper.
‘…Most stories are,’
Proserpina stares at the word ‘beloved’.
The ink looked like it had been smeared.
Like a teardrop has fallen and stained the page.
“Whoever this was, this… beloved,” the young goddess finally deigns to say, when she was certain that her voice will come out steady, gloved fingers gently brushing over the faded word, knowing the words to be the truth before they even passed her lips, “…they certainly must be gone a long time ago.”
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