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Beneath the velvet cloak of night,
Where stars concede to dimmest light,
She met the Grim, his hand outstretched,
A silent vow in darkness etched.
His voice, a whisper, calm and deep,
Through silken mists where sorrows sleep.
"Fear not the path, though dark it seems,
For even death cradles your dreams."
She tread the line, the mortal's blur,
As his presence stirred the quiet stir.
Each step they took, the veil grew thin,
A gentle pull to realms within.
No chains, no pain, just guiding grace,
His hollow gaze, a solemn place.
In his embrace, she found her part,
A bittersweet thrum within her heart.
For though the end would steal her fire,
His touch awoke a strange desire—
To trust the dark, to lose control,
And let the Grim enshrine her soul.
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