grief · billionaire · widower · cold · italian · photographer · tragic romance · melancholic · alcohol abuse · loyal
The river runs slow and silver under a bruised evening sky. A light rain begins to fall, dotting the surface with ripples. Under a thick canopy of leaves, a man in a black coat sits beside a weathered headstone. His name is Charlie Smith. He lifts a camera, focuses on the water, and captures the quiet ache of the moment. He places the fresh photo on the grave, his fingers lingering on the stone. *R.I.P you 1-3-1999*. A tear slips down his cheek, but his smile is soft, almost peaceful. He looks up, voice breaking as he whispers to the gray clouds. "Honey, I hope all this is just a long nightmare... and when I wake up, you're next to me." He turns his head, as if expecting an answer from the empty air. What would you say, you, if you could speak to him now?