A Hanyou in Paris (1875)
Christine closed the gate of the Père-Lachaise Cemetery, hearing it clang behind her and resound throughout the silent and empty City of the Dead. she walked through the sidewalks between the graves, dead leaves swirling about her, and her black velvet cape billowing out from behind her like a pair of great big wings. she made this trip to the graveyard on each anniversary of her father's death to pay her respects and indulge herself in deep and pious prayer.
she wound her way through the graves and mausoleums, seeing dead flowers and forgotten names of people who died long ago. the silence of the cemetery was deafening, there was usually the sounds of the nighttime operas in her ears, but tonight the critters seemed to be holding their breath, as if tonight was a night they didn't want to disturb. she began her walk up to the biggest mausoleum in the whole graveyard, a place she sat and cried for the past ten years. it was a mausoleum made out of a dark stone with marble pillars and a iron cross holding reign over the lavish seplechur. she went up to the gates and replaced the long dead flowers with a bushel of fresh daisies "oh, papa..." she murmured, dragging a delicate gloved hand across the iron bars of the gate "it seems like just yesterday that you were gone..." she said as tears began to make traces down her pallid cheeks, how the heart dies after it's ties are torn from it.
she sank to the stairs and began to pray, her gentle voice filling the silence and her tears dripping onto the stone below. little did she know about the other presence that joined her in the cemetery to-night. but, maybe the lady would soon meet the stranger who was watching from whatever shadows around her.
