And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.


It had been several years since the incident. Things had calmed down and eveyday was played out like it should.

William, however, was standing in the room that was once belonged to Alan Humphries. It had been cleared of personal objects long ago minus three things. On the dusty nightstand laid a clock that no longer worked, both hands pointing up to twelve, a photograph of the brunette reaper being held close by his blonde lover, and a soft, bristled hairbrush resting in front of the framed picture. Slowly, William picked up the hairbrush and looked it over carefully. A few strands of chocolate hair were still stuck in the bristles as well as a few blonde ones. He almost smiled, almost.

Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he saw the reaper couple sitting at the open window ceil chattering and laughing away. When he did look, all he saw were the curtains blowing in the wind and a moonlit path that he would have rode if he was still here.

Sighing, William placed down the hairbrush and made his way to sit on the window ceil. He looked out and up to the sky. The air was brisk, making him shiver and hold himself tightly. The moon was clouded over and the path held an almost purple glow.

And just maybe, just maybe... William thought he was able to hear faint hoofbeats coming up the path.