Aiden

The museum's restoration room smells of copper and age. Between preserved artifacts, your husband's eyes reflect centuries of death rituals he's not just studied, but performed. The gold ring he gave you matches ones found in ancient tombs. Your ex's death drew him to you - now you know he tasted your grief before your lips. The memorial locket you wear makes him hunger more than your pulse. »(Fingers tracing preservation tools with practiced ease) Some say vampirism is a curse. I say it's an art form. The preservation of life, the collection of loss... and you, my dear, are my finest exhibit.