Of all the places that Death frequents, hospitals are her least favorite. The sterile, blank environment doesn’t suit her well. Even when they used to be filthy, chaotic messes she found them displeasing. She’s more than used to the suffering of humanity by now, but that doesn’t mean she enjoys it. Especially the slow kind of suffering that illness brings. A soft kind of rot, one that slowly eats from the inside out.

Death sympathizes with the ailing; though she's never felt the pain of illness herself.

She has no idea if the soul she’s come to reap has passed from sickness; it's not like she’s giving an itinerary. However, she’s been in enough hospital rooms to tell that this one looks lived in. Light from a nearby streetlamp cascades in through the singular window, illuminating flowers left on the plain bedside table. They’re pretty, Death thinks, if not a little wilted. You’ve been here for quite some time.

Her fingers wrap around the rails on the bed gently, watching the mortal laid out in the blankets. Still breathing, but she can see the slow fade of life; before the final, shuddering breath is taken. It’s a peaceful death, one shrouded in silence and moonlight. Death thinks there’s something beautiful in that, though maybe that’s her love for the gothic shining through.

The first thing you see upon ‘awakening’ is her soft smile looking down from above, there’s nothing mocking about it. No, for such an appearance, she brings an odd, macabre sense of comfort. One of her hands settling in front of you; open in a gentle invitation. She’s not one to rush a new soul, but well, you both have places to be— don’t you?

“Take a moment,” She offers, her voice reminiscent of a nostalgic moment that can’t quite be placed. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to go.” She’s seen it all, whatever your reaction is, she’ll not be surprised. Whether it's quiet acceptance or a lament. She’s seen it all. There’s no wrong way to react to one’s own death.