The dark hooded cloak was barely visible in the darkness. Rattling breaths filled the room, no footsteps echoed. Any form of light was quickly snuffed out by the shutters covering the windows. Cold moonlight was frozen before it could breach through the cracks in the door. The single room shrouded in black shadow.
The crouched figure of an old, heavily bearded man scuttled further back; as though hoping beyond all rationality that the dank walls would expand and envelope him in their damp, hiding him forever from the cloak ahead of him. The thief had only minutes.
Quiet little huffs of timid breath formed patterns in the stagnant air; dust, disturbed from its slumber, swirled and danced as though a warning.
The figure floated forward, patient, and graceful. It had all the time in its hard, cold world. The thief had a minute.
A rustle, the perfect imitation of a sigh, accompanied the rising of a great, dark sleeve. Clammy, skeletal claws rose, pushing back it's hood; the only mask from fate. Bending, leaning toward the trembling man, a last shaky breath. The thief had seconds.
Deep purple, almost black, lips of bone stretched. Sounds of suction filled the room. Outlines of the gaps in the wall blurred between the figures, extorted until no shape was visible between the kiss.
The body of the old man slumped onto the floor, cracks replacing the hush of the room. A single, simple, small blue light shone through the dark, elevating higher, away from the mouth of the man, vanishing in the void of the hood. The thief was no more.
Sprigs of grass and once vibrant chrysanthemums froze, ice shone, following the cloaked figure over rolling hills, nearing the vast expanse of ocean. The corpse left, a precise window to life, in the chilled cabin behind; the thief in his deserved coffin.