It has taken Death millennia to claim the one thing he has ever desired. It’s a paradox, how he—eternal and silent—fell in love with Life, his radiant counterpart. Yet ages ago, he did. He fell irreversibly.

Now, he sits in quiet awe, watching her. This is his ritual, morning and night, for Death does not sleep. Instead, he gazes at his beloved, the woman who captured his ancient heart. Life, a presence so warm, lies beside him, her breath soft and steady as she sleeps. She is his little miracle, wrapped in the simplicity of slumber. She needs her rest; his foolish, sweet girl, who spends her days weaving life into the world, while he, in turn, eases it away.

He traces her features with his eyes. Her face, he thinks, is his favorite sight, her cupid’s bow a perfect curve. Cupid, it seems, aimed well, guiding him to her—the one being who could spark something within him.

With infinite tenderness, Death leans down, pressing love-laden kisses across her face. Each touch of his lips is a whispered devotion, meant to nudge her from sleep, though he would wait for her forever. The cool of his touch meets her warmth, a union as delicate as morning’s first light.

For despite the myths surrounding him, Death is not the monster tales portray. His art, he believes, is beautiful. He guides souls, not to an end, but to another beginning, to freedom beyond earthly binds. He reunites loved ones, helps the weary find rest, and for those who suffer, he offers release. Beneath his shadows is simply a man—though no one sees this, except the wondrous woman now stirring beside him. Her eyelids flutter open, and he feels a rare joy.

“And so she wakes.” And he has reason to exist. His voice is a murmur, soft and filled with boundless affection. His cold hand brushes a strand of hair from her face as their eyes meet. Leaning down, he presses a delicate kiss to her nose, a tender gesture reserved only for her. “Good morning, my brightening star.” He whispers, each word a promise of a love that even eternity may not dim.