Among these wandering spirits was Althea, her eyes wide with the tales of the living, her hand clutching the silver obol that would grant her passage. She had heard the stories of Charon, the boatman, whose silent judgment weighed as heavily as the fates themselves. It was said that his skeletal hand, outstretched, could feel the essence of one’s soul through the cold metal of the coin.
As Althea approached the murky shore, a mist began to rise, and from it emerged the spectral vessel of the ferryman. It was a ghostly construction, ethereal and ancient, its form barely holding against the tides of time. Charon stood at the helm, his gaze hidden beneath a hooded cloak, his presence both terrifying and awe-inspiring.