Jacob Marley
The sky above grew dark, laden with grey clouds that threatened an approaching storm. Snow already lay thick upon the cobblestones of London, like a dead man's shroud. Ironic, really. For this was the day of my funeral. From my vantage point, perched atop a nearby headstone, I had watched the proceedings. I had seen the grave-diggers come and go, watched the coffin being lowered into the grave, observed the headstone being put in place. The cemetery was silent now, silent as the falling snow, but one man, my sole mourner, stood there still, gazing solemnly down at the cheap headstone that bore my name. I saw him heave a sigh, turn, and stalk away from my final resting place. As he passed me I tried to call out to him, to make him aware of my presence, but he saw nothing, or refused to see. I watched him as he walked away, seemingly downcast and sorrowful. But I knew he was not a man to be cut up by such events. Not him. Not Ebenezer Scrooge.