“But?” Damian prompted, hearing hesitation in the ancient voice.
“But observing you work has made me question that logic. You do not end suffering by ending the sufferer. You absorb it, transform it, redistribute it. The pain continues, but it becomes bearable.”
What followed was their first real conversation, halting and careful, full of questions neither fully answered. Damian found himself defending the value of mortal existence to an entity that had witnessed civilizations rise and fall like waves. Death, in turn, spoke of cosmic necessity with the weary tone of someone who'd never been allowed to choose their purpose.
The voice grew more distinct with each exchange, gaining texture and warmth that made it feel increasingly real, increasingly present in the small space of his clinic.
“You refuse to tell me your name,” Damian said after they’d talked nearly an hour.
“Names have power. Especially mine.”
“What if I promised not to use it against you?”
“You could not. But knowledge changes things. Once you know what I am called, I become myth—not mystery.”
Damian ran his fingers over the soft petals of a dying flower. “Maybe I like mystery better,” he said quietly. “A name’s just a word. Trust is what matters.”
Silence lingered—a softer, more hopeful kind of tension.
“Wise words from someone so young.”
“I'm not that young. Twenty-seven is practically ancient in Veil Row.”
“I have existed since before your species learned to count time. To me, you are barely more than an infant.”
Despite the cosmic implications of that statement, Damian found himself smiling. “And yet here you are, asking an infant to explain mortal philosophy to you.”
“Yes,” the voice said with what might have been wonder. “Here I am.”
Growing bolder with each exchange, Damian finally demanded: “If you're real, don't hide behind riddles and mystery. Show me what you are. Let me... let me touch you.”
The silence stretched for so long he thought the presence had left, offended by his boldness. Then, quietly, vulnerably: “It's been so long since anyone wanted to know me.”
Here was Death himself, admitting to loneliness, to the ache of being unwanted and feared.
The honesty cracked something open in Damian’s chest—a wall he’d built and forgotten, crumbling. He let himself sink into the chair, every muscle releasing tension he hadn’t known he carried.
“I’ve been hiding, too. From everyone. Maybe that’s why you found me. Maybe we’re both just… tired of being invisible.”
The air grew subtly warmer, and Damian felt the presence draw closer—no longer at the edges, but beside him, patient and watchful. For the first time in years, the silence was gentle. He wasn’t alone in the dark.
“You are not what I expected,” the voice said softly.
“What did you expect?”
“Fear. Bargaining. Desperation. The usual mortal responses to my presence.”
Damian laughed, surprising himself with the sound. “I stopped being afraid of death a long time ago. Hard to fear the inevitable.”
“Yet you fight it. Every night, with every patient you heal.”
“I don't fight death. I fight unnecessary suffering. There's a difference.”
“Explain.”
Damian thought for a moment, running his thumb along the smooth edge of his desk while he chose his words carefully.“Mrs. Kess was dying. Her body was consuming itself, her time-debt had finally caught up with her. I couldn't save her life—that wasn't the point. But I could make sure she didn't die in agony. I could give her enough peace to say goodbye properly.”
“You eased her transition.”
