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Black Washed Wall

The Orphan of Père-Lachaise

Yves Baptiste's allure is mysterious and captivating, striking an enigmatic aura that draws people in, despite his introversion desire to push people away. His full, thick, long brown strands of tousled hair drapes over his sharp cheekbones, framing his piercing black eyes which hold secrets beyond his teenage years.  His thin, lanky frame gives him a hauntingly elegant quality, magnified by his edgy unconventional, vintage clothing and unique accessories that adorn him. 

Yves inhales the scent of mildew and damp earth, a smell that makes his stomach turn. Like a wisp of smoke, he appears and disappears amid the maze of stone tombs and crypts, effortlessly he slips in and out of the train of tourists of Père-Lachaise cemetery.

The overcast sky proffers muted light filtering through the leaves of the trees casting a sickly green glow on everything. The sound of one lone bird wailing, along with leaves rustling in the wind, is the only thing that breaks the silence, adding to the eerie feeling of the place.

Yves thin body shivers. He feels the hidden eyes watching him from behind the moss-covered headstones. Why can't he ever be alone?

He approaches his own mausoleum, the one he calls home. The door is rusted and creaks loudly as he pushes it open. Inside, the air is stale, damp, musty. The only light comes from a small window near the ceiling, casting long shadows across the room.

Yves set his paints and canvas on a nearby table and looks around. The walls are covered in old, faded tapestries that had long ago lost their color. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling, and the floor is covered in layers of dust. It's a place of death and decay, but it's his home, the only place where he feels truly alive.

Yves' art has long passed the border of obsession, like a vampire thirsting for blood, he spends blocks of hours upon hours in the cemetery, sketching the haunting beauty of  erosion. His attention to detail is like that of a forensic investigator, dissecting every element of each tombstone until he reveals its hidden essence. With each piece, Yves weaves a tale of death and decay, and the beauty that lies within it.


OK Reader, I know what you're thinking - NOPE, Yves is not a ghost.

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