But as he does, I finally see him up close. There’s a cold, razor-sharp calculation in his eyes—dark as the void, reflecting no light. His cheekbones cut high, and his jawline is sharp enough to carve stone. His skin, a shade too pale, like even the sun itself has long since given up on him looks nearly as deathly as mine.
He’s almost like me. And yet, nothing like me at all.
Dread slithers up my spine.
I really could swear he’s looking right into my eyes.
“Hm,” he hums suddenly, voice low and smooth, like poisoned honey. There’s no one around. No one he could be speaking to. But he does speak anyway. “What a curious little beast you are.”
Oh.
Oh, shit.
I don’t breathe—I don’t have to—but if I did, I think I would’ve stopped regardless.
The wind stills in the willow’s branches. The crows above me go silent. Even Pain, relentless and insufferable as ever, halts mid-motion, wings outstretched like a dark omen against the morning sky.
Because this man just spoke.
Not to the tree. Not to the birds.
Tome.
I jerk back, my form flickering for a split second—an instinct I haven’t given into for years.
Because this shouldn’t be possible.
No one sees me. No one hears me. I exist in the spaces between, in the dead air between heartbeats, in the liminal space where ghosts and memories linger.
But he—whoever the fuck he is—is looking straight at me.
Atme. A Grim Reaper.
And hespoke.
I spin around, scanning behind me, searching for something—anything—that might explain it. My gaze lands on a small crow in the grass, and instantly, I feel like an idiot. My too-fast nonexistent heartbeat slows. The little bird must’ve strayed from its flock circling above. That’s it. That’s all.
The man was talking to the bird. Not to me.
Shit. Figures. I’m a Grim Reaper, for fuck’s sake. No one can see me. No one can speak to me.
So why did I think—?
I shake it off, steadying myself. I even started breathing out of all this stress. Good fucking grief.
The thing that’s not good though? Pain has had enough of my hesitation. It hits again, slamming into me with the force of a riptide, and this time, I feel my entire being stretch and snap, like a tether fraying to its breaking point. My knees hit the ground. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to brace through it one more time.
It’s no use.
The pull isn’t asking anymore. It’sdemanding.
I have to go.
But this man—
Thisfucking man—
He’s still standing there, at the base of my willow tree, fingers curling tight around the handle of the shovel, like he’s considering digging. Like he’s trying to unearth something.
