Beneath the hemorrhaging sky, where dusk drips like bruised wine over the fractured spines of headstones, I wander, veins thrumming with ancestral ache. The soil exhales a fetid lullaby, each breath a confession, each root a knotted secret gnawing at my boots. Marble angels weep rusted tears, their wings eroded by centuries of sorrow.

On the edge of a rain-lashed moor, where the wind howled dirges through twisted yew trees, the Blackwood Crypt loomed like a jagged wound against the storm-riven landscape.