A creature of ink and midnight, of stolen wishes from hours spent kneeling before the light of a dying star, reclines upon an ivy-strewn brick wall in an abandoned garden. The garden, as full of memories as it is of Wisteria petals dusting the hidden footpath, weeps from the dew on a dried fountain of Cupid. If the god of the old gardener who watched over the line-riddled man saw the old man now, whose smile that glowed for eighty years at last had to fade, whose laughter that radiated youth despite the passing decades at last was silenced, he too would cry in the garden of Wisteria and ivy. If the number of fallen petals were to count the number of tears the god would weep, there would be many more to fall, until the fountain of Cupid was crowned with petals, until the dark earth was covered with lavender snow. But the god will never come, so the creature lounges alone, listening to the quiet requiem carried on the wind.