Ansem was an empty grave. He was unfulfilled expectations and surprising twists and the not-quite-happy fluttering of butterfly wings in your stomach that always occurs when you meet someone you lost touch with after a while and realize that yeah, they're still alive and (...oh. That's why) you had never really liked them to begin with.
Ansem's words and beliefs and heart, his name and feelings and memories, were empty empty empty (hollow ringing in a stone vault) and dead dead dead (old and brittle texture crumbling into a fine dust).
Ansem was dead, but his grave was still empty.
