The girl sat on the frozen ground, her white nightgown pooling around her like spilled moonlight. Blood—deep, violent crimson—stained the snow beneath her, spreading in a slow, terrible bloom. Her hair, once silken and beautiful, now tangled and dark with damp, clung to her pale face.

She did not move. She did not blink.

Above her, on a throne carved from shadow and bone, the Grim Reaper watched.