He sat crouched in the shadows. The countless years had begun to erode his rigid spirit. His body, by nature, remained as it had when he first tasted his draught of damned existence. His long silver hair was pulled back tight and smooth with black cord. His boots were well-polished and ran midway up his calves. Starched black breeches and a well-pressed shirt draped his lean frame. A thick woolen greatcoat covered it all, its fabric matching his stony eyes.

The world tumbled around him, just as confused and jaded as he. A child played with her father below on the cobblestones. Laughing and flicking her raven hair, she tossed a pastel ball. Meanwhile, alone on the rooftops, this silver-haired man frequently gazed at the children while they played. He had almost been a father. There had been a child, a girl, he was certain. Occasionally his mind would sail away. She was tall, was she not? Her hair-was it black as his had been, or did it glow, as her mother's had, chestnut and crimson. Was she as cold as he had let himself become? A maelstrom of thoughts churned in his mind, always. He called himself Phillipe.

Damned to roam the world forever, Phillipe was serving his sentence. He had thrown himself from life before God had intended. As a punishment, he was given life-unending to be shown what anger and grief truly were.

Since 1832, and its foul river, Phillipe had tried to escape his punishment: in pain, in death, and. in love.He watched the twilight spill over London. Harsh stone buildings paled and softened when flooded with the evening light. The child went in, her father and the ball behind her.