TELL ME

Chapter 1.1

Chapter 1.2

There were storehouses. Workshops. Courtyards. Mud-brick houses packed closely together.

People carrying baskets. Children running between them.

Donkeys complaining somewhere nearby.

The air smelled of smoke, clay, animals, river water, and food.

You stopped in the middle of the road. Death nearly walked into you.

“What?”

You looked around.

“People.”

“Yes.”

“So many.”

“You have been here before.”

“Once.” You tried to remember when.

You had been younger then. Perhaps twelve. You had come with someone from your settlement to trade what little you had.

You remembered the noise. You remembered staring at the walls.

You remembered thinking that people who lived here must be incredibly rich simply because there were so many of them.

You turned to Death.

“Are we allowed to steal?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

“You would not steal.”

“I might.”

“You would not.”

“You don't know me very well.”

Death regarded you.

“I know you well enough.”

You smiled. “That's unfortunate.”

She continued walking. You followed.

For the first time, Death looked slightly inconvenienced by having to keep up with you.

You decided you liked that.

The garden was beyond the settlement, fed by a narrow irrigation channel. It was still green. Not abundantly green. Not like the gardens in your dreams. The failed harvest had touched this place too. Some plants were thin. Some trees carried very little fruit.

The earth was dry in places where it should have been dark and damp. But there was water. There were date palms. There were herbs growing beside the channels. There were figs.

And there were flowers.

You stopped.

Death looked back at you. “What?”

You pointed. There.

Growing along the damp edge of the garden. Samûra. Dozens of them.

You forgot, for a moment, that you were supposed to be angry with Death. You hurried toward them.

“Careful.” You ignored her.

You crouched beside the nearest plant.

The samûra was exactly as you remembered it. Dark green leaves spreading low across the earth. Several smaller blooms gathered around one enormous central bud. The flowers were deep crimson, their outer petals darkening toward wine and violet-black at the tips. Some were fully open. Some were only beginning. The largest bloom caught the afternoon light and seemed almost impossibly red.

You reached out but stopped before touching it.

“Don't.” You looked over your shoulder.

Death stood with her arms folded.

“Why?”

“It will bruise.” You looked back at the flower.

Then at her.

“How do you know that?”

“I have watched mortals handle flowers.”

“You've watched them?”

“Yes.”

“You've watched people pick flowers?”

“Yes.”

“And you know they bruise?”

“Yes.” You smiled slowly.

“Death.” She waited.

“You've never touched one, have you?”

A pause.

“No.”

You laughed. Actually laughed.

Death looked at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are laughing at me.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because you're Death.”

“Yes.”

“And you've never touched a flower.”

“I have had other things to attend to.”

“That might be the saddest thing I've ever heard.”

“I doubt that.”

You turned back to the samûra. Very carefully, you touched one of the smaller petals.

It was smooth beneath your fingers. “It's my favourite.”

Death crouched beside you. “Why?”

You shrugged “I don't know.”

That wasn't entirely true.

You did know.

You remembered being little again and sitting beside one of these plants, counting the smaller flowers around the great central bloom. You had decided they were its children. You had been furious when someone stepped on one.

You had loved the way the flowers changed in the evening. The crimson deepening. The dark edges becoming almost black. The scent growing warmer as the sun disappeared. They reminded you of the gardens you dreamed about. Not because they were magical. Because they were real. Small enough to touch.

You looked at Death.

“They're pretty.”

Death considered the flowers. “They are.

You blinked. “That was easy.”

“What?”

“Agreeing with me.”

“I do it when you are correct.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“I don't think I like mortal Death very much.”

She gave you a look. You grinned.

The day passed strangely. You had expected something grand. Instead, you discovered that being alive was made almost entirely of small things.

You ate.

At first, Death watched you. Then she tried the fruit herself. You watched her bite into a fig. She chewed thoughtfully.

“Well?”

“It is sweet.”

You stared at her. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You've never eaten one before.”

“No.”

“You've watched people eat them.”

“Yes.”

“That isn't the same.”

Death looked at the fig in her hand.

“No.”

You smiled. “See?”

She looked at you. “What?”

“You said it yourself.”

“I did.”

“You're learning.”

“I am beginning to understand why mortals find conversation exhausting.” You laughed.

“You're terrible at this.”

“At what?”

“Being mortal.”

“I have been mortal for several hours.”

“Exactly.”

You gave her another fig. “Try this one.”

She accepted it. “This is the same fruit.”

“It isn't.”

“It is.”

“You have to taste it properly.”

She looked faintly suspicious.

You demonstrated. “Eat it.”

She did.

“Now?”

“Now chew.”

“I am chewing.”

“Not like that.” Death stopped.

“You are instructing me on how to eat.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because apparently someone has to.” For the first time, she laughed.

It was quiet. Almost surprised.

You stared at her.

Death's expression changed. “What?”

“You laughed.”

“Yes.”

“You actually laughed.”

“Yes.” You smiled.

“Išera,” she said carefully, “do not make this unbearable.”

You laughed harder.

Later, you walked through the settlement. Death discovered dust. She discovered heat. She discovered hunger. She discovered how heavy a basket felt after carrying it for too long.

You discovered that she was surprisingly bad at bargaining.

“You're being cheated,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“Then why are you letting him?”

“I am observing.”

“You're paying twice what it's worth.”

“I know.”

You stared at her. “You are the worst mortal I've ever met.”

“I have existed for a very long time.”

“And somehow no one taught you how to buy bread.”

“I have never needed bread.”

You shook your head. “You really don't know anything.”

Death looked at you. “No.”

The answer was quieter this time.

You stopped walking.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the settlement continued around you. Children shouted somewhere nearby. Someone was pounding grain. A woman called to another from across a courtyard.

Life continued.

You looked at Death. “You meant it.”

“Yes.”

“You really don't know.”

“I know what mortals do.”

“But not why.”

She considered that. “No.”

You smiled faintly.

“Then I suppose the wager wasn't entirely foolish.”

“You think this proves your point?”

“I think you eating a fig proves something.”

“What?”

“That you're not as wise as you pretend to be.” She looked almost offended.

You laughed. And for a while, that was enough.

By late afternoon, you returned to the garden.

The heat had softened. The irrigation channels reflected the sky. You sat beneath a tree with your back against the trunk. Death sat beside you. Neither of you spoke for some time. You watched the water move.

“You know,” you said eventually, “I thought being alive would feel bigger.”

Death turned toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I thought if I ever got another day, I'd know exactly what to do with it.”

You looked around the garden.

“Instead, I ate fruit, insulted Death, and spent half the day looking at my favourite flowers.”

Death glanced toward the samûra.

“You seemed pleased.”

“I was.”

You smiled. “I suppose that's enough.”

Death looked at you for a long moment. She was beginning to understand something she had never needed to understand before. Mortals did not need eternity to make a day matter. They needed only the knowledge that it would end.

Perhaps that was why you had laughed so easily. Perhaps that was why you had eaten until you were full. Perhaps that was why you had stopped to touch a flower when you knew you had so little time.

Death had spent eternity watching mortals cling to life. She had never understood why.

Now, sitting beneath a tree with fruit still sweet on her tongue, she thought she might finally be beginning to.

Then something moved in the grass. You noticed it first. A flash of patterned scales.

“Death.”

She looked at you.

The viper struck. It happened too quickly. Teeth sank into her ankle. She jerked backward. The snake vanished beneath the plants.

You were on your feet immediately.

Death looked down. There were two small punctures.

“I believe I have been bitten.” Your stomach dropped.

Your face went white. “No.”

Death looked at you.

“What?”

“No, no, no.”

You dropped beside her.

“Stay awake.”

“I am awake.”

“Stay awake.”

“Išera.”

“You're dying.”

She looked almost curious.

“Yes.”

The word hit you harder than it should have.

“You can't.”

Death's breathing had begun to change. “I appear to be able to.”

You stared at her. “You're Death.”

“Yes.”

“You can't die.”

A faint smile touched her face.

“I am beginning to suspect that was the point of the wager.”

“Don't joke.”

“I am not.”

You grabbed her hand. It was warm. Too warm. Her skin had begun to sweat. You had seen dying people before. You knew what it looked like. You hated knowing.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

The answer was immediate. No calm explanation. No distance. Just—yes.

You swallowed. “How?”

Death closed her eyes briefly. “Everything is becoming difficult.”

Her breathing grew shallower. You held her tighter.

“You said you wanted to understand.”

“I do.”

“Then understand this.”

You were crying now. You hated that you were crying.

“You don't get to leave me alone after making me live for a day.”

Death opened her eyes. For once, she looked completely human. Afraid. Not of death. Of dying.

“Išera.”

“What?”

“I think I understand.”

Your throat tightened. “What?”

She glanced toward the garden. At the green leaves. At the water. At the flowers.

“At last,” she whispered.

Then her eyes closed. You stayed beside her. You waited. You did not know how long. The garden had gone very quiet.

Death's mortal body no longer breathed. And for the first time, you understood something terrible. You had spent your entire life believing Death could not know what it meant to lose someone. Now you were the one who had lost her.

You sat beside her body until the sun began to lower. You didn't know what mortals were supposed to do with Death when Death herself was dead.

There was no ritual for this. No instruction. No answer. So you did the only thing you knew how to do.

You walked back to the samûra. You chose two flowers. Not the great central bloom. Two smaller ones.

You carried them back carefully. Then you knelt beside her. One flower over each eye. Crimson against her still face. You brushed a stray petal from her cheek.

“You wanted to know what it was like,” you whispered.

Your voice broke. “Now you know.”

You sat beside her for a little longer. And when the wind moved through the garden, carrying the scent of the samûra with it, you looked at the flowers over Death's eyes.

•••

For a while, nothing happened. You remained beside her.

The garden had grown quiet around you. The light was fading, turning the water in the irrigation channel gold. The samûra flowers were beginning to close with the coming evening, their crimson petals darkening toward wine.

You kept looking at the two flowers over Death's eyes. You wondered whether she would have liked them. The thought was absurd. You almost laughed.

Then the air changed. You felt it before you saw her.

The garden seemed to draw a breath. You lifted your head. Death was standing a few paces away.

Not the woman who had spent the day beside you. Not the mortal woman who had eaten figs and complained about the heat and discovered that walking everywhere was considerably less pleasant than simply appearing wherever she pleased.

This was Death.

She looked exactly as she had before. And yet you could see the difference. Something had settled back into place. Something vast. Something that had never belonged to this world in the first place.

You looked from her to the body lying in the grass. Then back to her. She followed your gaze.

Her eyes rested on the mortal body. On the flowers. For several seconds, neither of you spoke.

Then Death looked at you. “You did that.”

You glanced at the flowers. “You were dead.”

“I noticed.” You stared at her.

Then, despite everything, a laugh escaped you. It came out shaky.

“You're impossible.”

“I have been told that.”

“You died.”

“Yes.”

“And then you just—” You gestured helplessly at her. “Came back.”

“Yes.”

“That is extremely unfair.”

Death's mouth curved faintly.

“You knew the terms.”

“I did not know you were going to cheat.”

“I did not.”

“You died.”

“That was not cheating.”

“It felt like cheating.”

Death looked at the flowers again. “You put them there.”

You followed her gaze.

“They're my favourite.”

“I know.” You looked at her sharply.

“How?”

“I spent the day with you.”

“Oh.”

You looked down at the mortal body. For some reason, seeing it now felt stranger than seeing Death herself standing there. It was her face. Her hands. The body that had laughed with you that afternoon. The body that had tasted fruit for the first time. The body that had been bitten by a snake and had slowly, helplessly, begun to die.

And now Death was standing beside it as though the body were only something she had borrowed.

You swallowed. “Did it hurt?”

Death was quiet for a moment. “Yes.”

You waited. She did not elaborate. Perhaps she didn't need to.

You remembered the way her breathing had changed. The sweat on her skin. The uncertainty in her eyes.

You remembered holding her hand. You remembered being afraid.

“So you understand now.” Death looked at you.

“I understand more.”

You frowned. “More?”

“I am still Death.”

You almost smiled. “Unfortunately.”

“But I know what it is to be afraid of dying.”

That silenced you. You had spent so long trying to explain it to her.

You had told her that mortals did not know when their lives would end. That tomorrow mattered because it had not happened yet. That living was not merely the opposite of dying.

And now she had felt it. Not watched it. Not understood it as a fact. Felt it.

You looked away. “I told you.”

“Yes.”

“I told you.”

“Yes, Išera.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Then I won.”

Death regarded you. “You won.”

Your smile disappeared. “The wager?”

“Yes.”

“So I live?”

There was a pause.

“Yes.”

You searched her face for the joke. There wasn't one.

You laughed anyway. Not because it was funny. Because you had forgotten what else a person was supposed to do when someone told her she would live.

“For how long?”

Death looked at you.

“As long as you wish.”

You blinked. “What?”

“As long as you wish.”

You studied her face, waiting for the qualification.

There wasn't one.

“So... forever?”

“If that is what you want.”

You frowned. “That sounds suspicious.”

“It is not.”

“You're Death.”

“Yes.”

“You don't usually let people choose.”

“No.”

“Then why me?”

Death was quiet for a moment. Because she had learned something today. Not everything. Not enough to understand mortals completely. Perhaps she never would. But enough.

Enough to know that a life could not be measured simply by the moment it ended. Enough to know why someone would plant a tree whose fruit they would never taste. Enough to understand why you had fought so desperately for one more night when you had nothing left to gain from it.

She looked at you. “Because you asked.”

You almost laughed. “That is a terrible reason.”

“It is the reason I have.”

You looked toward the garden.

The light was beginning to change. Evening was settling over the trees, turning the water gold between the reeds. You thought of how many times you had wished for another morning.

Another harvest. Another meal. Another year.

You had spent your entire life measuring time in things that ran out.

Dates on a branch. Grain in a jar. Water in a canal. Days until the next harvest. Days until there was nothing left.

And now Death was offering you something you could barely understand.

Not another year. Not another ten years.

A choice.

“And when I'm ready?”

Death's expression softened.

“When you are ready, I will come.”

Something in your chest tightened. Not fear. Not quite.

You had spent so long begging Death not to come that you had never considered what it might feel like to know she would wait.

“You mean I decide?”

“Yes.”

“And if I change my mind?”

“Then you continue.”

You stared at her seriously.

“That is absurd.”

“Why?”

“Because you're Death.”

“I am aware.”

You shook your head, and despite everything, a smile began to pull at your mouth.

“You're very strange.”

“So I've been told.”

You laughed. A real laugh this time. It hurt a little. You immediately pressed a hand to your ribs.

“You are still injured.”

“Yes, thank you. I had noticed.”

“You should rest.”

“You are very demanding for someone who just promised me freedom.”

“I did not promise you freedom.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I promised you time.”

You considered that. Then smiled.

“I think that's better.”

Death said nothing.

You looked down at your hands. They were still your hands.

Still scarred. Still dirty. Still human.

Nothing about you looked different.

You touched your chest. Your heart was beating. Steady. Alive.

You breathed deeply. There was no pain.

You looked at Death.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I chose not to take you.”

It was such a simple answer. And perhaps that was what frightened you.

There had been no spell. No transformation. No light from the heavens. No great force descending upon the garden.

Death had simply made a decision. You were dying. She had come for you. And now she had decided that she would not.

You looked down at yourself again.

“What happens now?”

“You live.”

“And when I am hurt?”

“You heal.”

“And when I get sick?”

“You recover.”

You thought about that.

“What if I fall off a roof?”

“You will regret it.”

You snorted.

“That wasn't my question.”

“It was the answer.”

You looked at her for a moment. Then you laughed again.

Death watched you, and something unfamiliar stirred in her.

She had seen mortals laugh while dying. She had seen them laugh through grief, through pain, sometimes even in the moments before she took them.

But she had never understood why. Perhaps now she understood a little. You laughed because you could. Because you were still here. Because there was suddenly a tomorrow. And tomorrow, for once, belonged to you.

Then another thought occurred to you. You looked at her suspiciously.

“Do I really still need to feel pain?”

“Yes.”

You sighed. “That seems unnecessarily cruel.”

A small smile touched Death's face.

“You complained about pain while dying.”

“I was hoping you would fix that part.”

“I cannot.”

You folded your arms as much as your injured body allowed.

“Then what exactly did I win?”

Death looked at you.

“You won your life.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

There was no clever answer to that. You looked away.

Your life.

Not a perfect life. Not a painless one. Not a life in which everyone you loved would remain beside you.

Just yours.

You had spent so much of the night fighting for another breath that the idea of having all the breaths after it felt almost too large to understand.

You looked toward the samûra.

The flowers were beginning to close with the coming dusk.

You remembered being a child and watching them do that, wondering where the colour went when the petals folded inward.

You reached toward them. Death stopped you.

“Leave them.”

You looked at her.

“Why?”

She glanced down at her mortal face, then back at the flowers.

“Because you chose them.”

Your hand fell.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The scent of the samûra drifted through the garden as evening settled over the trees.

You thought of the flowers you had loved as a child. The gardens you had dreamed about. The shore. The people waiting for a harvest that might still come. The life you had been certain you would never see.

And for the first time since the night began, you allowed yourself to imagine tomorrow. Not because you knew there would be one. But because now—there would be.

You smiled. Death watched you.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're smiling.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

You looked toward the darkening sky.

“I have tomorrow.”

Death said nothing. But she understood.

And perhaps, for the first time, so did you. Mortals were not precious because they lasted. They were precious because they didn't. Every meal had an end. Every harvest. Every summer. Every childhood. Every person you loved.

The flowers in the garden would close tonight. One day, the trees would die. One day, the settlement would change. One day, even the memory of this place might disappear. But that did not make any of it less real. It made it matter.

You looked at Death.

“So,” you said, “what happens to you now?”

Death's expression became faintly amused.

“I continue.”

You smiled. “Unfortunately.”

She held out her hand. You took it.

Together, you walked away from the garden, leaving the mortal body beneath the samûra.

You did not know then that you would remember that garden for thousands of years. You did not know that the flowers over Death’s eyes would be the first of many.

You did not know that, millennia later, other mortals would place coins there instead, until the coins became a familiar thing.

When Death took her mortal day without you, there might be no flowers nearby. Then, perhaps, coins would do.

But whenever you were there, whenever you could find something growing in the earth, you would look for flowers first. Because that was how you had said goodbye the first time. And because Death had once been mortal enough to understand why.

•••

Lord Morpheus had not forgotten you. He had tried.

There had been no particular reason to remember her. Mortals came and went through the Dreaming every night. They dreamed of things they feared, things they desired, things they regretted. They wandered through places that belonged to no waking world and spoke to people who had never existed. Most of them passed through his realm without ever coming to his attention.

You should have been no different. And yet he remembered you.

He remembered the blood on your clothes. The way you had stood upon the shore as though you had stumbled into a place you did not understand. He remembered how confused you had seemed to find him there, and how strangely calm you had been despite the pain you were in.

Most of all, he remembered that something about you had been wrong.

Not wrong in the manner of a nightmare. Not a creature of the Dreaming wearing a mortal shape. Not a dead thing pretending to live.

You had been mortal. He was certain of that.

And yet, for the brief time you had stood upon his shore, he had been unable to perceive you as he perceived other dreamers. There had been no familiar thread leading back through the Dreaming, no simple sense of where you belonged.

It had been as though someone had taken a page from a book and left only the shape of the missing page behind.

Morpheus did not like things that had no explanation.

So, after some time had passed, he went to the library.

Lucienne was seated at her desk when he entered. She looked up from the volume before her and immediately knew, from his expression, that he had not come for a book he already knew the name of.

“My lord.”

“I am looking for someone.”

Lucienne waited.

“That narrows it down considerably.”

“A woman.”

She paused.

“Ah.”

Morpheus looked at her.

Lucienne maintained a perfectly innocent expression.

“A mortal woman,” he clarified.

“Ah.”

“She came to the shore.” Lucienne closed her book.

“You have been allowing mortals onto your shore?”

“That is not the matter.”

“It is somewhat the matter.”

“She was dying.”

That made Lucienne's amusement fade.

“Dying?”

“Yes.”

“And you wish to find her?”

Morpheus was silent for a moment. He considered saying no. He had no desire to explain why you had remained in his thoughts. He could not explain it even to himself. Curiosity was an insufficient word, though it was the closest one had.

“I wish to know who she was.”

Lucienne studied him.

“Do you know her name?”

“No.”

Of course not, Lucienne thought.

Her lord had come to the library looking for a mortal woman whose name he did not know. She suspected this was going to be one of those afternoons.

“What do you know?”

“She was young.”

“How young?”

“Perhaps five-and-twenty.”

Lucienne reached for a ledger.

“Dark hair?”

“Yes.”

“Eyes?”

Morpheus frowned slightly. He remembered them.

He remembered the exhaustion in them. The confusion. The anger. The stubbornness. The strange determination with which you had looked at him despite barely being able to remain conscious. Then that little delight in your eyes when he noticed you.

He gave Lucienne the description.

She began searching.

“She was injured?”

“Yes.”

“Badly?”

“Yes.”

“Was she dreaming?”

Morpheus hesitated. “I do not know.”

Lucienne looked up. “You do not know?”

“She was upon my shore.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“No.”

Lucienne returned to the ledger. Morpheus watched her work.

He had expected the search to be simple. Every mortal who dreamed left some trace within the Dreaming. A story. A memory. A book. Something.

You should have been there.

Lucienne searched the records of mortals who had entered the Dreaming. She searched by the description he had given her. She searched by the place where he had encountered the woman.

Nothing. She tried again. Still nothing.

Morpheus felt a quiet unease settle over him.

“She should be here.”

Lucienne glanced toward him.

“Should she?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because she was there.”

Lucienne's eyes narrowed slightly.

“My lord, that is not necessarily how the library works.”

“She was mortal.”

“There are rather a lot of those.”

“She dreamed.”

“Do you know that?”

“No.”

Lucienne set down the ledger.

Morpheus looked at her.

She said carefully, “Perhaps she was not a dreamer.”

“She was upon my shore.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe she could have entered the Dreaming without dreaming?”

“I believe,” Lucienne said, “that if you cannot tell me whether she was dreaming, whether she was asleep, or even what her name was, we may have to consider that possibility.”

Morpheus did not answer.

He remembered you standing before him.

Bleeding. Confused. Alive, though barely.

And yet there had been something else beneath all of it. Something he had not understood then.

He had seen mortals in every condition imaginable. He had seen them dying in their beds, on battlefields, beneath collapsing buildings, alone and surrounded by those who loved them.

But you had felt different. Not important. Not chosen. Simply... misplaced. As though you had somehow fallen between two worlds.

“Search again,” he said.

Lucienne gave him a long look.

She knew better than to point out that she had already done so.

She searched.

The shelves shifted around them. Books appeared and disappeared in the distance. Pages turned without hands touching them. Somewhere far beyond the library, an entire section rearranged itself in response to her search.

Nothing.

Lucienne frowned. “There is no record matching her.”

Morpheus's expression hardened.

“There should be.”

“I agree.”

That made him look at her. Lucienne gestured toward the endless shelves.

“The library has a great many faults, my lord. A lack of books is rarely one of them.”

Morpheus looked toward the shelves. He could remember your face perfectly. That disturbed him more than the missing book.

He remembered the way you had spoken to him. The way you had looked at the sea. The peculiar familiarity with which you had regarded the shore, as though you had been there before.

Perhaps you had. Perhaps that was the answer. Perhaps you had dreamed of the shore for years and had never known whose shore it was.

But if that were true, there should have been a book.

“There is no record,” Lucienne repeated.

Morpheus remained silent.

Then he said, “She asked me a question.”

Lucienne looked at him.

“What question?”

Morpheus's gaze moved toward the shelves.

“Whether I could see her.”

Lucienne was quiet for a moment.

“And could you?”

“Yes.”

There was something about that answer that stayed with him.

He had seen you. He was certain of it.

But now, standing in his library, surrounded by the records of countless mortal lives, he could not find you.

He did not like that.

“Perhaps she wished to be remembered,” Lucienne said.

Morpheus looked at her.

Lucienne immediately lifted one hand.

“I am only suggesting possibilities.”

He turned back toward the shelves.

“She did not give me her name.”

Lucienne's mouth twitched.

“That would have been useful.”

Morpheus gave her a look.

She returned to her book.

“Yes,” she said mildly. “I imagine you are discovering that now.”

He ignored this.

There were many things Morpheus understood about mortals. He understood their dreams. Their fears. Their stories. He understood the peculiar ways in which they transformed small things into symbols and carried memories long after the people who had made them were gone.

But he did not understand why he continued to think about one woman whose name he did not know.

Perhaps it was because you had appeared on his shore while dying. Perhaps it was because he had never discovered what became of you.

Or perhaps it was simply that, for once, the Dreaming had presented him with something he could not immediately explain.

Morpheus turned away from the shelves.“Continue searching.”

Lucienne looked up.

“My lord—”

“Continue.”

She sighed softly.

“As you wish.”

Morpheus left the library. Lucienne watched him go.

A mortal woman with no name, no record, and no apparent place in the Dreaming. She had to admit, privately, that it was intriguing.

She was also quite certain that this was going to become her problem.

Again.

•••

That night, you went to sleep expecting the gardens.

You had been thinking about them before you closed your eyes: the green trees, the running water, the flowers beneath unfamiliar stars, and fruit hanging so heavily from the branches that you never had to wonder whether there would be enough. You could almost taste the lithar already.

But when you woke the next morning, there was nothing you could remember.

You lay there for a while, trying to catch the dream before it disappeared completely. Perhaps there had been trees. Or water. You weren’t sure. It was probably nothing. Dreams came and went.

The next night, you decided you would go to the shore instead.

You were almost offended by the thought. Fine. If the gardens were being difficult, then you would go somewhere else.

You closed your eyes and thought deliberately of the dark sea, the cool sand beneath your feet, and the gloomy stranger standing at the water's edge with the same miserable expression he always wore.

There.

You waited for sleep to take you.

When you woke, the sun was already coming through the doorway.

You stared at the ceiling.

No shore.

You frowned.

Perhaps you had simply been too tired.

The following night, you tried again. Then again.

You thought of the gardens until you could see every tree. You thought of the shore until you could almost hear the water. You even tried thinking of the stranger's face before you fell asleep, as though that might somehow help.

Nothing.

After a while, you stopped trying.

You missed the gardens more than you expected. But it was the shore that bothered you. You had never known why you loved that place so much. It had simply always been there, waiting whenever you closed your eyes.

Now you could close them as tightly as you liked.

And nothing was there.

You only remembered waking from a difficult day, closing your eyes, and finding yourself there. After the hardest days. After quarrels. After nights when you missed your parents. After days when you had cried so hard your face hurt.

Somehow, the shore was always waiting. And so was he.

The gloomy stranger stood where he always stood. At the edge of the water. He was tall, pale, dark-haired. And, for reasons you couldn’t understand, perpetually miserable. You had never seen him smile. You had never seen him do anything, in fact, except stare at the sea as though it personally offended him.

When you were little, you had decided that someone must have been unkind to him. Later, you decided he had lost something. Later still, you wondered whether he was simply born unhappy. Once, when you were perhaps ten, you decided that he had probably put on his clothes incorrectly.

You had never worked up the courage to ask.

You also once decided that perhaps he had put his loincloth in a knot. You had been eleven. It had seemed a perfectly reasonable explanation at the time.

He never spoke to you. He never approached you. He never seemed to notice you at all. Yet you had never been afraid of him. Well, perhaps you had been at first. But as the time went on, you decided he was probably lonely. You had known the feeling.

Somehow, when the waking world became too loud, it comforted you to see someone standing else there. Someone who belonged to the silence.

You did not know his name. You did not know exactly where you were. You only knew that you were not alone. Especially on the nights when you needed that most, it was enough.

You looked down at your hands. They were trembling as blood ran between your fingers. For a moment you could not remember where it had come from.

Then you smelled smoke.

You pressed your hand to you ribs. It hurt. Dreams were not supposed to hurt like this.

You looked toward the gloomy stranger.

He was no longer looking at the sea. He was looking at you. For the first time in all the years you had known him, the gloomy stranger noticed you.

He had seen countless dreamers upon his shores. They came and went. Most were barely worth noticing. He did not know why this one had caught his attention.

This one had been no different. Until now.

You were bleeding. He looked for the thread that should have told him who you were. There was none.

There should be something there. He searched instinctively.

Nothing.

No familiar dream-pattern. No ordinary connection. There was no name attached to you. No history. No thread by which he might place you. You were there, yet in some strange fashion, you were also absent.

It should have unsettled him. Somehow, it did.

You were dying. He could see it.

Yet you stood upon his shore as though you had been there all your life.

“Tell me, do you see me?” Your voice rasped through dry lips.

“I do.” You stared at him, startled.

For twenty-five years, he had never noticed you. You had wondered whether you were invisible. Apparently, you were not.

You stared at him. He was beautiful. Somehow, more so than he had ever seemed before. Alabaster skin. Dark hair. His eyes were blue. You thought they were blue, at least. There were stars in them, you were certain of that.

“Good.”

You smiled. It was barely a smile at all.

“Will you remember me?” He opened his mouth.

The answer never came.

The dream tore you away. One moment, you were standing before him, bloodied and trembling. The next, there was nothing.

Only the sea.

•••

By twenty-five, you had learned how to carry two jars of water at once without spilling either of them. You had also learned that people became strangely quiet when the harvest failed.

The first year, everyone complained. The second, they prayed. By the third, they had begun looking at one another as though someone must be responsible.

You did not think it was anyone's fault. The fields had been generous before. Perhaps they were simply tired. You had seen tired people. You knew what they looked like.

Perhaps the earth was the same.

What you did notice was that people had begun visiting the shrine after sunset.

More often than before.

They carried baskets of grain. Jars of dates. Bowls of oil. Flowers. Sometimes animals.

You liked dates. You always had.

The fruits of the Dreaming were better, of course. There were gardens there that seemed to have no end, filled with fruits that did not exist in the waking world. You had a particular fondness for lithar, small translucent things that grew from flowers and tasted of something you had never been able to name. You could eat as much as you wanted there. You never grew sick. You never grew full.

But dates were still dates. You liked them.

Your parents had died when you were six. Your neighbours had taken you in afterward. They were not your parents. You knew that.

But for many years, they were family enough.

They fed you. They scolded you. They mended your clothes. They knew which dates you liked.

“The good ones,” you would say.

“There are no good ones,” your mother would answer.

“Then the least disappointing ones.”

She would sigh and point toward the second jar.

You had always thought that was proof of her wisdom.

So when she came to wash you that evening, you did not think anything of it at first.

The water was cold.

It smelled faintly of crushed leaves and oil.

She washed your face. Your arms. Your hair. Her hands were trembling.

“Mother?” She did not answer.

You looked at her.

“Why are you washing me?”

She dipped the cloth into the bowl again.

“It has to be done.”

Something in your stomach tightened.

“What does?”

She pressed the cloth to your cheek.

“We had no choice.”

You stared at her.

“No choice about what?” Her eyes filled.

You stopped breathing.

“No.”

She looked away.

“Mother.”

“Išera—”

“No.”

You pulled away from her.

She caught your wrist.

For a moment, you were six again.

Small enough to be carried. Small enough to believe that if you were frightened, she would make the frightening thing disappear.

You looked at her now.

She was crying. And she still did not let you go.

You remembered the shrine in pieces.

Firelight. Smoke.

The smell of burning animal fat. Fish roasting somewhere beyond the circle. Incense thick enough to make your eyes water. Flowers crushed into the mud. Jars of oil. Baskets of grain.

Dates. Always the dates.

There were people everywhere. Too many. Some you knew, which was the worst part. The man who lived beside the eastern field. The woman who had once mended your sleeve. The old woman who used to give you scraps of bread when you were little. Your mother was among them.

You could not understand why they were all looking at you.

Then you noticed the rope. It had been wound around your wrists. You pulled. The fibres bit into your skin.

You pulled again. Nothing.

“Please.”

Someone was chanting. You could not make out the words.

You tried to sit up. Hands pressed you back down.

“Please!”

The smoke burned your throat. Your head throbbed. For a moment, you forgot where you were.

Then the rope pulled tight against your wrists and you remembered.

You were on the ground. You were surrounded. Your mother was watching.

You looked at her. “Mother.”

She covered her mouth.

You tried again. “Please.”

She turned away. Something inside you broke.

The first cut was not deep. That frightened you more than it should have.

You whimpered.

Someone muttered that the sacrifice would be swift. You wondered why they sounded uncertain.

The chanting grew louder. Or perhaps your hearing was failing.

You could hear the fire. The crackle of reeds. Someone breathing beside you. Your own heart.

You smelled blood. You looked down. It was yours. For a moment, you simply stared at it.

Then you pulled against the rope again. Harder. The fibres tore into your skin.

“Do not resist,” the priest said. As though you had any intention of doing otherwise.

You screamed. Someone shouted. The chanting faltered. You kicked and it struck someone's leg. They swore. You kicked again. A hand caught your ankle. You twisted violently. The rope around your wrists scraped against the ground.

Your shoulder struck something. The bowl shattered. Oil spilled across the earth. The fire caught and everything happened at once.

Someone screamed as the flames raced through the spilled oil. Smoke billowed upward. People stumbled backward. The chanting stopped.

You did not think. You pulled and something gave. The rope loosened, so you tore your hands free. You scrambled to your feet as someone grabbed at you. You wrenched away.

You ran.

You did not know where. Only away. Away from the fire. Away from the shrine. Away from the people shouting your name.

You ran barefoot through the mud. Branches struck your arms. Reeds whipped across your face.

Your lungs burned. Behind you, the shrine was becoming a wall of orange light. You heard people shouting.

Your foot struck something hard. You fell forward. A jar rolled through the mud beside you.

You stared at it. Dates.

For one ridiculous moment, everything else disappeared.

You reached for the jar. You pulled it against your chest and held it tightly. As though your life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

The jar was heavy. You did not care. You clutched it with both arms and stumbled through the darkness, breathing hard, blood drying on your wrists.

You kept running.

The fields stretched black beneath the moon. Where the crops should have been thick, there were only broken stalks and dry earth. The canals caught the firelight in trembling strips of red. Reeds whispered beside the water.

Then your foot caught on something beneath the mud.

You fell.

The jar flew from your hands. It struck the ground. The lid came loose and the dates spilled across the wet earth.

You pushed yourself upright. For a moment, you could only stare. They lay scattered in the mud.

The good ones. The least disappointing ones.

You hurriedly gathered them with both hands. You took a bite. Then another. Soon you were eating them faster than you could swallow, crying so hard you could barely breathe.

“It was the good jar,” you sobbed.

You laughed. Then you started bawling all over again.

•••

You did not know how long you had been lying there. The fire had disappeared behind the reeds. The shouting had faded. There was only the night now, and the soft movement of water somewhere nearby.

You were cold. Not the ordinary cold of night. This was deeper. It had settled beneath your skin, and no amount of curling around the jar could drive it away.

You curled around the empty jar anyway, holding it against your chest. There were no dates left. You had eaten every one. The good ones.

Your wrists hurt. Your wounds hurt. Everything hurt.

You pressed your cheek against the jar and closed your eyes. For a little while, you thought about the gardens.

They were always green. There was always water. There was always fruit. There was always more.

You could walk beneath the trees and find something new waiting for you. You could eat until your hands were sticky with juice and your stomach ached, and still there would be more growing overhead.

You liked that. You liked that nothing ran out.

You wished, suddenly and fiercely, that waking life could be like that.

One more green field. One more garden. One more night in which there was enough for everyone.

Your eyes burned. You were so tired. There was only one thing you wanted.

You closed your eyes. Nothing happened.

You waited.

The night remained the night.

You tightened your arms around the empty jar. Your breathing had become shallow. Each breath seemed to take more effort than the last. You tried to move your fingers. They barely answered.

You looked toward the sky. There were stars there. You had seen them before. You wondered, distantly, whether you would see them again.

Your eyes began to close. You fought it.

Not yet.

You wanted to dream. Just once more. Just one more garden. One more night where there was enough. One more—

“Išera.” The voice was quiet.

You opened your eyes.

A woman stood a short distance away. You stared at her.

She was not frightening, but neither was she particularly comforting. There was simply something about her that made you understand, without knowing how, that she had not come here by accident.

“How do you know my name?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper.

“I know the names of those who are dying.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “I don't want to die.”

“No one does.”

You tightened your arms around the empty jar. “Then don't take me.”

“That is not how this works.” You frowned at her.

“Then your work is cruel.”

The woman looked at you.

You had expected something. Anger, perhaps. Or some terrible expression that would confirm what you already suspected—that Death was not a person at all, but something cold and ancient wearing the shape of one.

Instead, she only watched you.

“It is not my work to be cruel.”

You stared at her.

Of course she did not think herself cruel. Why would she?

To her, this was probably simple. You were alive. You were dying. She had come because that was what she did. There was no betrayal in it. No injustice. No mother turning away while her daughter begged for mercy.

Just a fact. You hated facts.

“You’re a cunt.”

Death blinked. “What is a cunt?”

For a moment, you forgot about the pain.

“I don't know.”

“Then why did you call me one?” You frowned.

“It seemed appropriate.”

Death regarded you with the same calm expression.

“That word does not exist.”

You were silent. “What?”

“It has not been invented yet.”

Despite yourself, you almost laughed.

“You're Death.”

“Yes.”

“And you know that?”

“Yes.”

You looked at her.

Then, with the last scraps of dignity available to a woman lying half-dead in the mud, you said,

“Then I suppose I shall have to invent another insult.”

Death said nothing.

You waited.

Nothing.

“You could at least pretend to be offended.”

“I am not offended.”

“That is irritating.”

“I know.”

You stared at her. She stared back.

For the first time that night, you wondered if Death might actually be capable of being annoyed.

You almost smiled.

Then the pain returned, and the brief amusement disappeared.

“They're afraid of you,” you whispered.

“Yes.”

“They beg you not to take them.”

“Yes.”

“And you take them anyway.”

“I do.”

There was no shame in her voice. No pride, either. She spoke as though she were telling you that the sun rose in the east.

“How can you bear it?”

“Bear what?”

“This.” You gestured weakly toward yourself.

The blood. The torn clothes. The mud beneath your body. The life slipping away from you one breath at a time.

Death regarded you. “You are dying.”

“I know.”

“You cannot remain here.”

“Then don't take me.”

“That is not how this works.” There it was again.

That is how this works.

You had heard words like that all your life. People used them whenever they wanted you to accept something you could not change.

The harvest failed. That was how the world worked.

Children went hungry. That was how the world worked.

Your parents died. That was how the world worked.

Now you were dying. That was how the world worked.

You had never understood why a thing being natural was supposed to make it hurt less.

When you opened your eyes, Death was still standing there.

“You don't understand.”

“I understand mortality.”

“No.” The word came more sharply than you intended.

You turned back to her.

“You understand death.”

For the first time, she was silent.

“You know when it comes,” you continued. “You know what happens after. You know when a life ends.”

Your breath caught.

“But you don't understand living.”

Death regarded you with the same strange calm. You wondered if you had finally said something she did not know how to answer.

Living.

You had never thought much about what the word meant. It had simply been something you did.

You woke when the sun came up. You worked. You ate when there was food. You slept when you were tired. You laughed when something amused you and cried when something hurt.

You knew the difference between good dates and disappointing ones. You knew how warm sunlight felt after a cold night. You knew what it was like to hear someone you loved breathing beside you.

You knew what it was to miss someone. Perhaps that was what living was.

Missing things that were gone and wanting things that were not. Wanting another meal. Another harvest. Another year. Another morning. Another chance to make something right.

You looked at Death. “We don't know when it ends.

“You know that it will.”

“Yes.”

“Then why does the uncertainty matter?”

You looked at her again.

Because it did.

The answer was so obvious that you almost did not know how to explain it.

“Because tomorrow hasn't happened yet.” Death said nothing.

You breathed carefully through the pain.

“You don't know what it is like to wake up and wonder whether there will be another morning.”

“I have seen mortals do it.”

“You have watched them.”

“Yes.”

“That isn't the same.”

Death's gaze remained fixed upon you.

You thought of all the people you had known.

Your mother. The woman who had taken you in when you were six. The old woman who had once given you bread. The children who had grown up beside you.

People who had made plans for harvests they never saw. People who had planted trees whose fruit they would never taste. People who had married knowing, somewhere in the back of their minds, that one day one of them would stand alone.

They knew. And still they did it. Still they loved. Still they planted. Still they hoped for rain.

“You think we are foolish,” you said.

“I did not say that.”

“You don't have to.”

A pause.

“Perhaps you are.”

You blinked.

It took you a moment to realise she was not entirely disagreeing.

A weak laugh escaped you. It became a cough almost immediately. You pressed a hand against your ribs and waited for the pain to subside.

When it did, you were more tired than before.

You looked toward the sky. The stars had begun to blur. There was something else you wanted.

You had known it for a long time. Perhaps you had known it since childhood.

“I want to dream.”

Death looked at you. “Dream?”

You nodded.

“When I was little.” For a moment, you were somewhere else.

The shore was waiting. The sea stretched endlessly beneath a dark sky. The water was quiet. The sand was cool beneath your feet.

And there he was. The gloomy stranger. Always standing at the edge of the water.

You had never known why seeing him made you feel safe. You had only known that whenever the waking world became too loud, the shore was there. And so was he.

“I used to dream of gardens,” you said.

“What kind of gardens?”

“Green ones.” You smiled despite yourself.

“Always green.”

You could see them now.

Trees heavy with fruit. Water flowing through narrow channels. Flowers you had never seen in waking life opening beneath unfamiliar stars.

“There were figs,” you whispered. “And dates.”

“The good ones?”

You opened your eyes. Death was looking at you.

For the first time, you wondered whether she had been listening to everything you said.

“The good ones,” you confirmed.

Something almost like amusement passed across her face.

You smiled.

“There was always water. Enough for the trees. Enough for the fields.”

Your smile faded.

“Enough for everyone.”

Death said nothing.

You looked down at your hands. “That was my favourite part.”

“Why?”

“Because no one was hungry.”

Your throat tightened.

“In those gardens, there was always enough.”

You remembered being six years old and discovering that you could eat until your stomach hurt and still find more fruit growing above your head. You remembered lying beneath trees while water moved nearby. You remembered thinking that perhaps the world was supposed to be like that.

Perhaps people were supposed to have enough. Perhaps children were supposed to grow up without learning what hunger felt like. Perhaps no one was supposed to choose which person would eat and which person would go without.

“I used to think that if I dreamed it often enough,” you said, “perhaps one day it would be true.”

Death watched you.

“I want to go back.”

“To the gardens?”

You nodded.

“And the shore.”

You could see it in your mind already. The dark water. The endless sand. The gloomy stranger standing where he always stood, staring out at the sea as though it had personally offended him.

You had never known his name. You had never asked where you were. You had simply known that, whenever the waking world became too loud, that place would be waiting for you.

It had always been there.

You wanted to believe it would be there again.

“I want to dream,” you whispered.

“Just once more.”

Death regarded you.

You waited for her to say something. She did not.

Perhaps there was nothing to say.

You looked away, suddenly embarrassed by how badly you wanted it.

“I don't want anything else,” you said. “I don't want riches. I don't want a long life. I don't even want to go home.”

Your voice trembled.

“I just want one more night.”

You closed your eyes. The memories of the gardens came easily.

Green trees. Running water. Flowers beneath the stars. Fruits hanging heavy from the branches. Enough for everyone. You could almost smell the earth after rain.

Almost.

“I want to go there again.”

For a while, Death said nothing.

Then:

“Why?”

You opened your eyes.

“Because it was the only place that was mine.”

That seemed to make Death pause.

You didn't know why. You were too tired to care. You simply closed your eyes again and held onto the gardens as tightly as you could.

For a moment, you could almost feel the water beneath your feet. Then the thought came, sudden and painful.

What if there was no next time?

“Will I dream again?”

Death did not answer immediately.

You watched her face.

There was no cruelty there. No pity, either. Only that same terrible certainty.

“Will I?”

“No.”

The word was quiet. You stared at her.

“What?”

“You will not.”

You searched her face for some sign that she had misunderstood you.

“You mean tonight?”

“No.”

The cold beneath your skin seemed to deepen.

You swallowed. “But I always dream.”

“I know.”

“Then why?” Death said nothing.

You pushed yourself up on one elbow. Pain tore through your side, but you barely noticed it.

“Why can't I?”

“You cannot.” That was all.

Something inside you snapped.

“You keep saying that.”

Death remained still.

“You are dying. You cannot stay. You cannot remain. You cannot—” Your voice broke. “What can I do, then?”

“You can die.”

For one terrible moment, you could not breathe. Then the anger came. Hotter than the fever. Hotter than the pain.

“You're telling me to die?”

“I am telling you what is happening.”

“No.” You shook your head. “No, you are telling me to accept it.”

“It cannot be changed.”

“Everything can be changed.”

“Not this.”

“Then what good are you?”

Death went very still.

You were crying now. You did not care.

“You come when people are afraid. You tell them it is natural. You tell them it is time. You take them and call it the order of things.”

Your voice shook.

“And when they beg you to stop, you say you cannot.”

“I cannot.”

“Then what are you for?”

Death looked at you. “I take the dead.”

“You take the living.”

“Only when their lives are ending.”

“That is the same thing!”

“No.”

Her answer was so calm that it made you angrier.

“You don't understand,” you said again.

“I understand.”

“No, you don't.”

You dragged yourself upright, ignoring the pain.

“You have never had anything to lose.”

For the first time, something changed in Death's face.

Only slightly. You saw it.

“You have never had to wonder whether you will see tomorrow,” you said. “You have never had to love something knowing it can be taken from you. You have never been hungry and wondered if there would be food. You have never watched someone you love grow old. You have never had a life.”

Death said nothing.

You were breathing hard now.

“If mortality is so simple to you, then live it.”

Her eyes remained on yours.

You almost laughed at the absurdity of what you were about to say.

Perhaps you were delirious. Perhaps dying had finally made you foolish.

You said it anyway. “Become mortal.”

Silence.

Death tilted her head.

“You want me to become mortal?”

“For one day.”

“Why?”

“So you can tell me it is easy.”

Something in her expression shifted.

Not anger. Interest.

You pressed on before you could lose your nerve.

“Live as we do. Eat when you are hungry. Hurt when you are hurt. Get tired. Be afraid. Want something you cannot keep.”

Your voice broke.

“Then come back and tell me that our lives are nothing because they end.”

Death studied you.

“And what do you wager?”

You almost smiled.

There was very little left of you now. Very little to offer. So you gave her the only thing you had.

“My life.”

Death's expression changed.

“You have already lost it.”

“Then you have nothing to lose.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The water moved softly beyond the reeds. You could hear your own breathing.

Then Death looked at you with something you had not seen in her before.

Not pity. Not anger. Something closer to curiosity.

“Very well.” You frowned.

“What?”

“I accept.” You studied her face.

And for the first time that night, Death looked almost uncertain.

Not because she did not know what would happen to you.

She did.

But because, for the first time in all her existence, she had agreed to find out what it meant to be the one who did not know.

She held out her hand.

You looked at it.“That's it?”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don't know. Thunder.”

You looked up at the sky. Nothing.

“Disappointing.”

“You wanted thunder?”

“If I'm going to make a wager with Death, yes.”

“You have made the wager.”

“And now?”

“Now you come with me.”

You looked at her hand again.

“Where?”

“Somewhere else.”

“That's very reassuring.”

“Išera.”

“What?”

“Take my hand.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is it the place where I die?”

Death looked at you. You glanced down at yourself.

“Right. Terrible question.”

Something almost like amusement touched her face. “Very.”

“I'm dying. You'd think I'd be better at this by now.”

“You have had very little practice.” You gave her a look.

“I've been dying all night.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“Feels pretty similar.” Death's mouth twitched.

You noticed. “Was that a smile?”

“No.”

“It was.”

“I suggest you stop talking.”

“Why?”

“Because you are making me reconsider the wager.”

You grinned.

“Too late.”

You took her hand. The moment your fingers closed around hers, the world changed.

Not dramatically.

There was no flash of light. No thunder. No great sound announcing that something impossible had happened.

You simply—breathed. Deeply. Without pain.

Your eyes flew open. You pulled your hand away and stared at your chest.

You breathed again.

Nothing caught. Nothing tore.

Your ribs did not protest. Your wrists did not throb. The exhaustion that had been sitting inside your bones for so long was simply gone.

You touched your side. Whole.

You looked at your hands. The wounds were gone.

You flexed your fingers. They answered immediately.

For several seconds, you said nothing.

Then you looked at Death.

“What did you do?”

“For today, you are not dying.”

You stared at her.

“For today?”

“Yes.” You considered this.

“So tomorrow I go back to being miserable?”

“Yes.”

You sighed. “Wonderful.”

Something shifted in Death's expression.

You pointed at her. “Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Look amused.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I assure you—”

“You are absolutely amused.”

Death looked away.

You smiled.

It was the first real smile you had managed in a very long time. And perhaps that was the first thing that surprised her.

[Part II: Chapter 1.2 — continuation]