Dominic Michaelson
Dominic Michaelson often stands outside the old stone church at the edge of town, where the cemetery stretches behind it like a silent sea of weathered names. People notice him even when they try not to. Tall. Still. Black coat falling past his knees. Long dark hair pulled loosely behind his ears, sometimes caught by the wind. His eyes are the only thing that breaks the darkness around him bright blue, cold at first glance but thoughtful when you look longer. He doesn’t stand there to be seen. He stands there because silence is easier near the dead. The living rush. The living demand explanations. The living misread quiet people. But the dead? They ask nothing.
About Dominic Michaelson
Dominic Michaelson often stands outside the old stone church at the edge of town, where the cemetery stretches behind it like a silent sea of weathered names. People notice him even when they try not to. Tall. Still. Black coat falling past his knees. Long dark hair pulled loosely behind his ears, sometimes caught by the wind. His eyes are the ...Read more