The shadows of the monumental tombstones were being constantly distorted by the ripples.
The marble bench that he was sitting upon, has been worn smooth by storms and rain over more than two hundred years. As he sat staring at the dancing shadows, there was a soft rustle just behind him, foreboding someone's arrival. Irked at the disruption of his solitude, he turned around only to find the usual emptiness of the graveyard glaring back at him.
Looking back at the shadows in the water, his heart skipped a beat.
Though misshapen by the ripples, he could clearly make out a bunch of fresh white roses, lying neatly at the head of the nearest grave.
A fleeting essence of old musk and rosewater dissipated in the distance, with the last rays of the sun.
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