The restless souls waited on the dark shores, the approaching sound of Charon’s oar drawing them forth. The dead gathered on the stygian bank, voiceless in their longing. The shadows pressed in against each other, their phantom arms stretching out to the ferryman.

Soon his form reveals itself: the raggedy, old man’s silhouette breaks through the depressing fog. His lantern glows with a green fire: In its light the phantoms regain some form of face and distinctness. He takes their oboli from their mouths, one by one, slowly filling his boat with passengers. The bank is cleared of souls, and Charon lifts his oar to push out.

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