I died in 1093, in England, but I still walk the earth. I am of the Undead, one of the condemned. We are the dead who attain no peace with the closing of our mortality, we are the souls who walk the shadows.
Purgatory is not what you have accepted.
Tonight I watch the moon, and the slivers of light that are dancing upon my night. I bathe in the moonlight, surrounded by the wood and the wind. It is silent and beautiful.
I am waiting for Robert Sinclair, my sad, despairing soul. We have much in common, despite the fact he is yet alive. We are forlorn souls.
For I am damned to walk among the living, to be invisible to those full of spirit. Only those such as Robert, the desperate ones, can see the Undead.
So, sometimes, we reach out. To touch what we were, what has vanished. It is even whispered in the shadows, that to save a despondent soul is to find our redemption.
I wonder, now and then, if that could be true.