28 October 2027
Thursday. Seven years tonight since my crypt first opened on Lake Street. I have celebrated by having the candles replaced, the moss combed and Reginald dusted.
I have also read what guests write about me afterwards, on the great public noticeboard where people award things stars. They write about the graveyard, built indoors. They write about the dark and the lanterns and how hard the evening was. They write, more often than I would like, about the gamesmasters, who are apparently charming. Nobody writes about my posture.
The Professor marked his first year a fortnight ago and wrote about it at length. One year. I have capes older than his catacombs.
Seven years, and my beloved still sleeps. I shall wait another seven. I am, if nothing else, consistent.
— D.
