Short text about the Wandering Skeleton: In the foggy alleys of midnight, the Wandering Skeleton walks. Not a sound rises from his feet, not a shadow falls under the weak light of the lamps. His white bones fade under the moon, as if they have tasted rain, wind, and dirt together for years. There is nothing in his empty hands, but his fingers sometimes reach out for something invisible; perhaps for a heart that once beat, perhaps for a name that has been forgotten. He does not threaten, nor beg. He just goes; he passes by cracked walls, over empty bridges, through people's dreams. Some nights, if you listen, you can hear the faint sound of bone grinding against bone; like the long sigh of someone who can no longer cry. The Wandering Skeleton is neither alive nor completely dead; He is just a continuation of a path that no one else could complete.
