Why do people think stories should have a happy ending?

We walked down the cold stone corridor. I held the thorny rose in my hand, blood still dripping from the pedals.

I felt as if I was in a trance. Ian had died, his blood on my rose. The guards from hell were leading me to my death. And yet, I was in a dream like state where it didn’t seem to matter. All I could concentrate on was the corridor and the rose.

A musty smell hovered around me in the icy air. The patches of moss growning in the cracks of the ground felt soft beneath my feet, for the bottoms of my shoes were worn thin. There seemed to be moss everywhere, even growning up the walls.