The guardian

Amongst the fog, it stands—silent and solemn. A weathered statue, cloaked in moss and shadow, its stone face turned skyward as if forever watching the heavens. The guardian of the dead.

Time has etched cracks into its surface, but still, it holds its vigil. Hands folded in prayer, or perhaps in warning. A saint, some say, carved by forgotten hands for those who once sought peace beyond the veil.

Around it, the graves lie still—names lost, stories buried—but the statue remains.