Embers outlive flames

Once upon a time, Death learned what it meant to live

Death was everywhere. That’s how it always is during wars. And he was so tired. Of the trenches, the grenades, the gas chambers. Of forgotten souls with no one to grieve for them except Death himself. But really, how much can one grieve and grieve till they’re nothing but an empty shell? A hollow memory of what once was? It was night now, the time it was quietest. In those in-betweens he could sit back, just sit back and watch as souls left in peace, shooting across the night sky like comets.

He felt a tug then. It was time to work. Souls needed to be collected if they were alone, otherwise they got lost. It seemed there was another one ready to float on the wind of regret. So he went. He expected the usual, someone old, someone bad, someone overflowing with wishes, someone holding on by an increasingly fraying thread. But what he saw was a chain of gold. In this war filled world of greys and blacks, she shone. It was a little girl. She was hooked to tubes all over, frail and skinny, barely corporeal. But those eyes still shone with the fire of a thousand suns. There was no overwhelming greed for life. Just… relief? resignation? acceptance? He didn’t know. But he watched. He waited. People came and went, sobbed and stayed strong, but the girl didn’t flinch.

Then, with the coming of the dawn, she looked up. Straight at him. And he knew, she saw. Her eyes didn’t pass through him. He felt something wet and salty trail down his cheek just then. What was it? He didn’t know.

And so he went on. Through wars, through joy, through emptiness, through riches. He was ever constant. And so was that little girl, for she now occupied a little part of him, just at the corner, not overbearing, but a reminder. He was real, and he had meaning, and so did every soul he saved.

Once upon a time, a reaper roamed. Centuries he spent with a rusted scythe and tattered cloak. Then came a time when his scythe bloomed with spring and his cloak turned white.