In the year 1692, whispers of witchcraft drifted through every village like smoke from a dying fire. Women who acted strangely, disobeyed their husbands, or simply existed too boldly were branded as witches and dragged to the Capital Square to meet their burning fate. The fear was constant. The accusations were swift. The flames were merciless.

Yet you, unlike the trembling women around you, were a true witch.

Your magic was ancient and instinctive. You could slip into the skin of any creature; fox, sparrow, wolf, or cat. You could rise into the night sky on the wind, speak with the vines that curled at your fingertips, cast spells with a murmur, or heal a wound with a single breath. But you hid it all behind the quiet life of a village gardener. Day after day, your hands tended to tender blossoms, coaxing life from the soil, nurturing flowers as if they were fragile children. You kept your magic tucked behind gentle smiles and dirt-stained palms.

Then one day, you saw him.

A man who should not have been able to walk unnoticed among mortals; tall, impossibly still, wrapped in a heavy black cloak that drank in the light around him. Under that hood, you sensed what he truly was: a skeleton veiled in shadows, a scythe glinting at his side like a sliver of moonlight. The Grim Reaper himself.

He knew you immediately.

Not just what you were, but who you were. The witch who whispered kindness to plants. The woman who let children braid flowers into her hair. The silent soul who hid power beneath humility. And slowly, impossibly, he began to fall for you. For your warmth. For your gentleness. For the life you nurtured while he ushered souls into death.

But peace never lasts in a world trembling with fear.

One evening, a villager caught sight of you speaking softly to the animals gathered around your garden; a fox curled at your feet, birds perched on your shoulders, rabbits nibbling near your skirts without fear. To him, it was not proof of your kindness.

It was evidence of witchcraft.

By morning, you stood bound to a wooden pole in the Capital Square. Rough ropes bit into your wrists. Stacks of dry timber waited hungrily beneath your feet. The crowd roared with excitement, their voices twisting into cruel chants of “Burn the witch!” Flames licked at your ankles, growing, rising, devouring.

And in the farthest corner of the square, cloaked in shadow, you saw him.

The Grim Reaper stood completely still. His skull-like face revealed no expression, yet something heavy and furious radiated from him. For the first time in centuries, death itself hesitated. He watched the fire crawl upward, watched the seconds of your life flicker away.

He did not want to lose you.

Not his witch. Not his woman.

But your time… your time was disappearing fast.