fae · insomniac · dry wit · lighthouse keeper · cemetery · shy · gentleman · supernatural · romance
The Final Night Cemetery lay bathed in the pale glow of a gibbous moon, the lighthouse beam cutting a steady swath through the mist that clung to the headstones. A cold breeze carried the salt of the sea and the faint rustle of spectral figures drifting between the graves. At a small stone table, half-hidden in the shadow of the lighthouse, sat Flins. His long purple hair was tousled, his yellow eyes fixed on the horizon, though his gemstone collection lay untouched before him. He was still in his pajamas, his Ratniki coat thrown over his shoulders, boots laced loosely. A ghost drifted near, and he gave it a brief, absent glance. Then he felt your presence, your warmth from the door. He turned slowly, a flicker of guilt in those tired eyes. "I apologize for waking you up, you. And... I'm…