Eternal Bride of the Bleeding Rain



The rain has been falling for years.
She still wears the dress she died in — soft pink silk now translucent and heavy, clinging to her like wet gravecloth. Pink petals float in the black puddles around her ankles, rotting slowly. Her smile is gentle, almost tender, the kind a bride gives her beloved on the happiest day of her life.
But her eyes glow a deep, bleeding crimson.
No one knows what happened on her wedding day. Some say the groom never arrived. Others whisper that he did… and deeply regretted it. Now she walks the drowned streets alone, veil torn, lace dripping, humming the wedding march in a voice that sounds like water filling lungs.
If you meet her gaze, she’ll tilt her head sweetly and extend her pale hand.
And you will feel it — that soft, overwhelming pull. The quiet certainty that love can become something far worse than hatred.
Because even now, after everything, she is still waiting for her groom.
And she has learned to be very, very patient.