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Death was dying. Had he expected some fanfare? No, he thought to himself, ceremony was for the living. Still, after all these centuries, it all just seemed…underwhelming. He stared down at his slim fingers poking out from his black cloak. They felt numb. Wiggling them slowly, his eyes widened slightly as the linoleum floor came more into focus. What seemed at first to be an optical illusion became the realization that his hand was indeed becoming transparent. He exhaled a soft grunt and clenched his fist tightly, nodding his head as his hand regained both its feeling and its solidity. He knew the signs. When time was up, the world would forget him, and his time was almost up. After six hundred and seventy-four years on the job, Death felt it. For the first time, he felt cold, and he felt tired.

He came back to reality with a start as a young nurse passed through him, hesitating just for a moment with a shiver before hurrying on. He watched her for a moment, then looked around. He stood in the middle of a bright hospital hallway, the timeless fluorescent lights glaring and sterile. In front of him stood a vending machine flashing OUT OF ORDER. Death peered at his reflection in the window of the machine, his hooded cloak draped around his tall slender frame. With a wry smile, he noticed the hunch in his shoulders and back. Not as towering and imposing a figure as he once was, he supposed. The door beside him opened, and another nurse stepped out, placing her chart in the holder on the wall. Behind her through the open door, an old man had nearly finished the messy business of being alive. Death straightened his shoulders and entered the room.

The old man lay in bed beneath a heavy white blanket, his mouth hanging open slightly, his chest rising in small, stubborn motions. Machines blinked and beeped around him, somehow both jarring and soothing in the stillness of the room. His daughter sat beside him, holding his hand with both of hers.

“Dad,” she whispered. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

The old man could not answer her. His body had forgotten how. His eyes stared toward the ceiling, glassy and frightened. But the part of him that was already loosening looked straight at Death in a look that was far too recognizable. Fear, anger, and relief danced in his eyes, as they did behind every set of eyes that fell upon him.

“You’re early,” the old man said.

Death stood beside the bed. “No.”

The man glanced at the machines, then the clock on the wall, as if that meant something. “Feels early.”

“It always does.”

“My daughter.” His voice trembled, though his body made no sound. “She thinks I can hear her.”

“You can.”

The old man turned toward her. She was crying quietly now, her thumbs slowly rubbing the back of his hand.

“I don’t know how to help her,” he said.

“You do not have to.”

“That seems unfair.”

“Most things are, in the end.”

The old man looked back at Death. “Is it going to hurt?”

“For a moment.”

“And after?”

“After, you will stop carrying the part that hurts.”

The old man swallowed. “My wife?”

Death’s expression softened, though imperceptible behind the shadow of his hood. “She has been waiting with some impatience.”

The man laughed. His body coughed. His daughter leaned closer.

“Patience was never her strong suit,” the old man said.

“That hasn’t changed,” Death replied, his shoulders giving a small shrug.

The old man’s face changed. The fear did not vanish, but relief took a larger part. “She’s really there?”

“Yes.”

“What if I don’t know how to go?”

Death offered his hand. “Then I will show you.”

The old man looked at his daughter, taking her in for the last time as he asked. “Did I do enough?”

Death had been asked this more times than he cared to remember, and the answer was the same as always. “No,” he said.

The old man’s eyebrows creased in disappointment.

“Neither does anyone,” Death continued. “You left things unfinished because you were alive. That is not a failure.”

The old man was quiet.

“Harold…it’s time,” Death said with a voice that he had honed over many years, one that evoked patience and finality simultaneously.

The old man nodded. His body gave one last long exhale, then remained still. The monitors began their mourning cry, and his daughter’s sobs joined them in concert. Harold blinked a few times before taking a deep breath and sitting up in bed before rising to stand next to Death. He took one last look at his daughter, and one last look at what he once was, still lying in the bed. He looked at Death and gave a smile. The pain, the fear, the regret had indeed been left behind. Death held out his hand and Harold took it without hesitation. Without a word, they walked together through the wall and left this world behind.

At the same moment, Death reappeared in the Office of the End. An endless windowless building with a short ceiling, doors that led to every doorway in the world, and rows upon rows upon rows of filing cabinets lit by candle sconces along the walls. Death reached into the fold of his robe and removed a small brass hourglass. The glowing green particles inside, far smaller than any grains of sand, continued their steady drop. Death raised his eyebrows as he watched the time slip by. How long had it been since he had last looked at it? Not much time left at all.

He remembered his predecessor, who had come for him in a snow-covered field outside of Moscow. A short, plump woman with long hair and piercing green eyes that he couldn’t look away from. She was dressed in the familiar robe, but only wore the hood when necessary. This time it wasn’t. She carried a small brass lantern by the handle, a bright blue flame flickering within.

“You have kind hands,” she had told him.

“I am a butcher,” he had replied with a slight frown.

“Yes,” she said.

He had not understood then. He understood now.

Death sighed and put the hourglass away. Then went to meet his replacement. He drew his scythe out from his cloak and entered a small side room which contained a simple desk and chairs lined against the wall. In one of the chairs sat a young woman, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked up at him.

“They told me to wait here,” she spoke quietly. “I suppose I’m waiting for you.”

“Hello Clara. Do not be afraid.” Death stood tall and spoke firmly, his scythe standing straight alongside him. First impressions and all that, he thought to himself.

She sat quietly for a moment, then stood and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture that he found amusing. “They told me you were kind. We can move beyond all that.”

He stood unmoving for a few moments before relaxing his shoulders and leaning his scythe against the wall behind him.

“Fair enough,” he consented before moving over to the desk and gesturing for her to join him.

A small ledger flipped open on its own and shuffled through the pages before coming to rest. He leaned over the ledger and read aloud.

“Clara Porter. Thirty-three. Hospice nurse by occupation. Dead fourteen minutes. Cause of death: Struck by delivery truck while pushing a child out of the way.”

He glanced over at her and saw her staring at the words written on the page. Of course she knew all this, but it was different to have your entire life summed up so neatly.

Her eyes flicked to the scythe and then back to him. “Why am I here?”

“I am retiring,” Death said.

“You mean dying.”

“Retiring sounds more professional.”

“Can Death die?”

“Evidently.”

“How?”

Death looked at her, thankful for the hood that shrouded his face. He didn’t have the answer to that question. A shrug sufficed.

Clara leaned against the desk. “And you want me to replace you?”

“Yes.”

“Why me?”

The ledger flipped a page.

“You have sat with two hundred and forty-six people while they died,” Death said. “You lied to none.”

Clara took a step back and folded her arms. “I don’t want the job.”

“Of course not,” Death mused. “Neither did I.”

Clara closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Death waited patiently. After a few moments she opened her eyes and nodded briefly.

“I should clarify,” he said. “The hood and scythe are not necessary.”

“They’re not?”

“No. Death existed before tailoring and before agriculture.”

“Then why use them?”

“Because they make the job easier.”

“How?”

“The dying are frightened,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Not always of what comes next, but of what they failed to finish. The hood gives that fear a shape, an…acceptance.”

Clara grew quiet. “And the scythe?”

“People think it cuts lives short. It does not. It cuts what clings.”

Clara only raised one eyebrow.

“Pain. Regret. Shame,” Death replied to the unspoken question.

His arm suddenly vanished. For a moment, the sleeve hung loosely at this side. Death muttered something she could not hear, stretching taller and staring intently at the fabric, seeming to will his arm back to solid matter.

Clara stood and watched, amusement mixed with compassion on her softening face. “How much time do you have?”

Death checked the hourglass. Nearly empty save for a pinch of time. The glowing grains had dimmed to a pulsing muted green.

“Enough to train you badly.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Reassurance takes time.”

He took hold of his scythe as he led her out of the office and through a nondescript door. They stepped into the rain. A two-lane road curved along the edge of a dark river. Red and blue emergency lights flashed across wet pavement. A bicycle lay twisted near the guardrail. Farther down the road, paramedics worked over a teenage boy with a cracked helmet. Clara stopped.

“No,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Death said.

“How old?”

“Sixteen.”

“That’s too young.”

“A matter of perspective, sadly,” Death replied.

The boy’s body still breathed, barely. His spirit stood a few feet away, soaked and shivering, watching the paramedics press on his chest.

“What’s happening?” the boy said. “Why can I see myself?”

Clara looked at Death. “He’s still alive.”

“For a moment.”

“You can talk to them before?”

“When they are close enough to hear. Sometimes I speak to the body. Sometimes to the spirit. Sometimes both. People are not as neatly divided as they think.”

The boy turned toward them. “Am I dead?”

Death did not answer.

Clara took a breath. “What’s your name?” she asked.

The boy blinked. “Evan.”

“Evan,” she said, stepping closer. “I’m Clara.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No.”

His eyes moved to Death.

“He’s here to help,” Clara said with a genuine and practiced tenderness that brought his attention back to her at once.

“I don’t want to go.”

“I know.”

“My mom’s going to be so mad. I wasn’t supposed to take the bike out after dark.”

Clara’s throat tightened. The paramedics worked faster. Someone shouted for more light. Evan’s body jerked under their hands. Death placed the scythe in Clara’s hand. It was lighter than she expected.

“I can’t,” she said.

“You can.”

She looked at him sharply.

“The job is not to kill him,” Death said. “That is already happening, though time has not caught up. The job is to make sure he does not go alone.”

Evan looked from Clara to Death. “Can you stop it?”

Clara wanted to lie. She had been trained in a hundred kinds of comfort, and for the first time she wanted desperately to lie. Death watched her.

“No,” she said.

Evan began to cry in the rain. Not a sobbing, but the quiet tears of someone grieving the life they would leave unlived. Death stood completely still and waited. At last Clara stepped towards him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I have a math test tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“I hate math.”

“Me too.”

Evan wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. My mom, I…”

Death finally stepped closer. He spoke with a quiet voice, soft with tenderness. “Goodbyes are too small for what they are asked to carry.”

Evan simply looked at him.

“Love is not held in last words,” Death said. “She will remember all of you.”

The boy squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Clara thought for a few moments, then reached for Death’s hood. He flinched when she lifted it from his head, but did not stop her. No one had seen his face in centuries. Under the hood, Death looked old. Not monstrous, not skeletal. Ordinary. An old man you would offer your seat to on a crowded bus.

Clara put on the hood. Through it, the rain softened. The red and blue lights faded and blurred into something inconsequential. She held out her hand.

Evan stared at it. “What happens now?” he asked.

“We go a little farther,” Clara said.

“Will it hurt?”

“Not after this.”

“Will someone be there?”

Clara glanced at Death. Death nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “Someone will be there.”

Evan took her hand. Behind them, the paramedics stopped. The rain kept falling. A faint humming came from the brick wall nearest to them, and the three of them turned their attention to it.

Evan hesitated. “I’m scared,” he said.

“So am I,” Clara answered.

That seemed to help him more than assurance would have. He stared into her eyes for a moment and his shoulders relaxed. She walked him through the wall. Death waited.

When Clara returned, the road was louder. A paramedic covered Evan’s body. Another turned away and leaned heavily against the ambulance, his head hanging low. Death stood beside the bicycle.

“You did well,” he said.

“I hated it.”

“Yes.”

“I hated it so much.”

“You did well. But we have more to do.”

They went next to an apartment, where Clara sat with a lonely man’s soul and listened to him talk about his photographs until he was ready. They went to a kitchen, where a woman had slipped on spilled soup and died laughing at the absurdity of it. They went to a battlefield, where a soldier asked only whether his dog would be there. With each passing, Death became less visible. His robe sagged and frayed. His thin skin blurred and shimmered.

“You’re scared,” she said.

“Yes.”

The answer caught her off guard. They stood on a bridge at dawn. A river ran below them and traffic ran behind them. Death sat on a nearby bench.

“I thought understanding death would make mine simpler.”

“Did it?”

Death simply shook his head. Clara sat beside him, the scythe across her knees.

“Who comes for you?” she asked.

Death looked at the river. “That is the question.”

The first sunlight touched the water.

“When the old Death chose me, she told me I had kind hands,” he said. “I did not believe her. I had used them for messy work. But she said that was why it mattered.”

Clara watched him.

“I have carried kings and beggars, murderers and their victims, mothers and children” he continued. “Six hundred and seventy-four years, and no one has ever come for me.”

Clara thought for a moment and then slowly removed her hood.

“You should keep that on,” Death said.

“Not for this.”

She took his fading hand. Her fingers closed over the nearly unseen.

“Maybe someone has come,” she said.

Death looked at their hands. “I do not know where to go,” he said.

“That’s all right.”

“I do not know what I am without the work.”

“That’s all right too.”

“I am very tired.”

“I know.”

The hourglass rested on Death’s lap. They both glanced down as the last grain fell, flashing a brilliant emerald green before fading away. Death exhaled. His feet vanished first. Then his knees. Then the robe that had belonged more to the job than to him. His face remained longest.

He looked peaceful, almost happy.

“Clara,” he said.

“Yes?”

“You may change the outfit.”

She laughed through her tears. “I might.”

“The hood is useful.”

“I know.”

“The scythe also.”

“I know.”

“But neither is required.”

An eternity of silence filled the air. “What is?” she finally asked softly.

Death looked at her hand, noticing with some amusement that his hand was still visible beneath hers.

“This,” he said.

Then he was gone.

A bus sighed to a stop overhead. A dog barked somewhere beyond the river. A man walked by on his phone, laughing. The world kept turning. Clara sat alone until the sun cleared the bridge, closing her eyes and bathing in the warmth. Then she put on the hood. She picked up the scythe. Standing to her feet, she let out a soft breath and straightened.

Clara felt it; somewhere in the city, an old woman was ready, surrounded by children whose names she had forgotten. Before she moved, she glanced down at the hourglass. It had turned itself over and stood upright on the bench, the grains at the top glowing a neon-bright blue light. She picked up the hourglass and watched as the first grain, almost small enough to miss, fell softly. Clara nodded and smiled to herself before tucking it away.

Death took her first steps toward the city as the sun rose higher behind her.