Death, cloaked in a shroud of black velvet, wandered into the rose garden, seeking solace in the rapturous hues of reds and pinks. Her fingers, like skeletal serpents, grazed the petals, stirring whispers in the wind. Eons of final breaths clung to her, and even the sweetest fragrance struggled to mask the scent of life’s end.
She sat on a worn stone bench, her mere presence wilting the roses that dared to grow too close. Death sighed, the air around her growing heavy with the weight of a thousand spirits. Each petal, a lost soul; each thorn, a final farewell. The roses, so much like the humans she guided beyond, were beautiful, ephemeral, and fragile.
The sun dipped low, casting long shadows that cradled her in a twilight embrace. She found solace in these quiet moments, a reprieve from the eternal dance with fate. The garden, a sea of crimson, bloomed defiantly against the tides of time, a stubborn reminder of life’s persistence.
But even in her momentary respite, the garden’s beauty began to wane. The roses, once vibrant and full of life, now withered beneath her gaze. She looked down, a single tear falling from her eyes like the kiss of the moon, leaving an imprint of silver in the dying petals.
In the end, Death could not escape her calling. She rose from the bench, the colors of twilight swirling around her as a fleeting embrace, and continued her appointed rounds. She knew that even as the roses wilted beneath her touch, new life would one day bloom, a testament to the cycle that she, herself, had come to embody.