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He feels a strange prickling under his skin.

“You are,” the old man says simply, like he has confirmed it through silence alone. He holds out his weathered hands in a gesture that could be read as either comfort or invitation. “Somebody important to you.”

Of course, the so-called fortune teller is making this up, the Death God tells himself. This must be a line he uses on anyone he comes across, because who isn’t looking for somebody? He would be a fool to pay it any attention. But his feet won’t obey him. He has been walking for—he forgets how long now. Weeks, at the very least. He does not need to sleep nor eat, so he has not paused to rest once. He has walked through the mountains, the ancient bamboo forests, the remote villages and outer plains, through pounding rain and choking fog and brutal, blazing heat. It is a journey without a marked destination; the only destination is her.

“Why don’t you come inside?” the old man asks, waving toward the tent. “You look like you ought to sit for a while.”

“I have no money,” the Death God lies bluntly.

To his surprise, the old man appears unfazed. “I am not asking for money. Fortune-telling is an art,” he says, eyes crinkling, “not a business.”

That must be why the tent is so small. He should go now. There is nothing he stands to benefit from this nonsense. But he finds himself following the old man through the heavy flaps, into the dim space. Cushions have been arranged haphazardly, the air inside tinged pale blue by the tent fabric and infused with the aroma of green tea. A single table is propped up in the middle, already used to its full capacity; on one side lies a yellowing scroll, filled with what seems to be deliberately indecipherable ancient characters, and on the other stands a jar of wooden sticks that resemble incense. The Death God sits cross-legged on the floor with every intention to leave.

“Now, tell me,” the old man says, lowering himself across from him. “Who is it that you’re looking for?”

“I thought you were already supposed to know, or at least pretend to,” the Death God says coolly. “Is that not the point of you?”

The man cackles. “I am merely a fortune teller, not a god.” There is a knowing glint in his eyes when he says it, as if they are sharing a private joke.

“Then you are useless,” the Death God says. He cannot believe he is still here. What is he doing? “You cannot help me find her. Nobody can.”

The mirth in the old man’s expression gives way to something gentler. “You are clearly grieving. It is all right to miss her.”

“Miss her?” the Death God repeats. The prickling sensation crawls all the way under his flesh, into his chest. He does not simply miss her. He does not know who he is, where to go without her. To lose her is to lose an entire world. A version of a life where he might have been happy, where he’d be next to her right now, not inside this miserable tent, turning to a mortal for a sign of the future. “I didn’t even think it was possible—to feel like this.”

He closes his eyes, clutches at the fabric over his chest. It’s here again: that breathless agony, striking him down where he sits. No, it never left. Maybe it has tied itself to him; maybe this will be it, for all his endless days.

“When everyone else reviled me, she loved me. When everyone else fled from me, she looked for me. When everyone else sought to hurt me, she healed me. And when everyone else wanted to kill me,” he says, on a painful breath, “she died for me.”

“I see,” the old man says solemnly.

“Do you understand?” he rasps, knowing he won’t; nobody ever could. He feels as if he has been submerged within a beautiful dream, and now that the dream is over, he cannot accurately describe the sights and sensations to anyone else, because everyone dreams alone. “I would have—I wish it were me. My life is worthless next to hers; if it were worth anything at all, it is because of her. It makes no sense. I am cruel and selfish and broken beyond measure. I—I was born destined for death. Everything about me is rotted from within. I am made of shadow, and she is the sea: expansive and beautiful and unpredictable. My mind runs naturally to the darkest places. When presented with a songbird, I think of bone. When given a peony, I think of decay. But when I think of her, I think of light.” The sun breaking through the clouds, filtering through the peach blossom trees, shining over water, turning everything soft, bright, molten.

“She clearly didn’t think your life is worthless,” the man tells him.

His mouth twists into an ironic smile. “Yes, because she has always had too high an opinion of me.”

“Or perhaps you are too harsh on yourself,” the old man says kindly.

“You would not say that,” the Death God retorts, “if you knew of the things I’ve done.”

“But she did,” the old man says. “She knew everything, did she not?”

“Yes. She knew everything.” All his fears and his failures, his memories and his mistakes, his sorrow and his shame, his hurt and his hubris. All that he had kept hidden away.

The old man does not push the subject. Instead, after a beat of silence, he says, “I suppose I cannot provide much solace. But let me ask you this: If you had a choice, would you rather you had never met her? Would you trade this pain for ignorance?”

He barely has to consider the question. “I wouldn’t.”

“Exactly.” The old man reaches out and pats his hand. He wants to recoil, but there is something about the weight of it—the realization that this is the longest conversation he has had since everything collapsed. He is shocked to feel the burning in his eyes, the soreness in his nose, the warmth trickling down his cheek. He licks his lips and tastes salt. How terribly pathetic—to lose his composure in front of a stranger. But the burning doesn’t subside, nor does the shaking in his shoulders. Something has sprung loose inside him, and suddenly it is difficult for him to see past the tears blurring his vision.

“I’m not sure I can withstand this much longer,” he confesses. He looks bleakly up at the man, praying for an answer, an end. “Please. Is there any way out?”

“In time,” the old man says. “Even if you cannot bear it, you must. That is the only way out of anything.”

“But will I see her again?” he asks. “Will she ever come back to me?”

The old man sits back, closing his eyes. The air inside the tent seems to gather around him with a faint humming noise, and the fragrance of the tea strengthens. Every second that passes is excruciating, buzzing beneath his sternum like wasps. He feels as though he might die before he hears a response, even though it should be meaningless, either way. At last, the old man says, “You may find what you seek.”