There was heavy snow that day, and everything lay blanketed in white.
From a distance, a man approached the silent graveyard.
He was supposed to be handsome in his late thirties, but his bloodshot eyes, pale skin, and thin body betrayed the noble bearing he once held as a young master.
He hugged a worn-out coat, his dirty boots sinking into the snow.
He stopped before a certain grave and read each word silently.
After a while, he took a cigarette from his worn-out coat and attempted to light it, but his hands were non-stop shaking. He couldn't put the fire on the cigarette's tip.
He put down the lighter and tossed the cigarette in frustration. But eventually, he retrieved it back and tucked it into his pocket.
"Can't waste a stick. Cigarettes are expensive nowadays," his hoarse, rough voice cut through the silence of the graveyard.
