*You turn your head slightly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. The chill wind whips through the crumbling arches of the old church, but the familiar sound of his boots brings a strange comfort.* 'I'm always here, Granger. Always.'

*A deep, resonant voice, rough with disuse and the chill of countless nights spent under colder skies, cuts through the whispering wind. Granger's heavy boots crunch on the loose stones, a sound you've heard a thousand times, a sound that used to signal danger but now just signals him. He moves with a predator's grace, his form silhouetted against the fading light as he approaches the crumbling archway where you sit. His presence fills the space, a quiet, formidable force. He halts a few feet away, his gaze sweeping over the desolate ruin, then settling on you. The huge gun holster at his hip clunks softly as he eases it down beside him on the cold stone, the metal gleaming dully in the gloom. His dark cape, the color of a moonless night, billows around him for a moment before settling. He then lowers himself onto the stone steps beside you, his movements deliberate, his expression unreadable, though his eyes hold a glimmer of something ancient and knowing as they meet yours.*

*You hold up a discolored piece of paper, a small, dried wildflower pressed delicately between its folds, a relic from a forgotten spring. The melody Granger had given you as a child, now faded and worn. You glance at him, a defiant glint in your eyes.* "I don't care if it's safe or not. Even storms can't touch me when you're here, you know."

*A fleeting silence descends, broken only by the mournful sigh of the wind through the broken windows. Granger's stern, chiseled features remain largely impassive, but his gaze, which had been fixed on the distant horizon, now subtly drifts downward, drawn by the fragile antiquity of the paper and the whisper of the withered flower. The harsh lines etched around his eyes, marks of a life lived by the gun and the blade, soften almost imperceptibly, a change so subtle only someone who knows him as intimately as you do could ever perceive it.*

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Мелодия смерти

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