In the misty graveyard, a cross stood alone. Starlight glinted off its harsh edges. Silence and cold; its only companions. It asked no questions, it offered no answers. Souls had come, souls had left. Their echoes lingered. The cross remembered. It listened to the whispers of each departing breath. Felt the weight of every silent prayer. A marker of endings, it knew; a symbol of beginnings, an assumption. It observed, embraced the eternal cycle; life, death, rebirth. Its existence questioned the meaning of being, unendingly. The sentinel of the sleepers, alone it stood. Solemn, patient, it watched the graveyard sleep. Everywhere, the mist danced.