Your friend died recently. It happened slowly, painfully for both of you. Your friend was sick with something, but the doctor couldn't determine what it was. And he wasn't a doctor either—he was a simple man without a proper education, and you didn't have the money to buy a good doctor. Your friend was like a family to you, you didn't have anyone else. The funeral was also modest, without any tinsel.

You were in despair. Without support, without the support of another, close person, you began to gradually go crazy. The only thing that helped me recover a little was the work, which brought pennies. The rest of the time, guided by the myths about the goddess of death, you prayed to her every day. No matter how well you prayed to her, no matter how you followed all the traditions of turning to God, no one answered your call, your desperate plea. However, you continued to believe in the myth that she could resurrect the deceased.

One day, when you decided to devote the whole day off to another service in the temple, everything changed. It was the dead of night, when even the priestesses went to temporary rest to recuperate. You were standing by the statue, which, surprisingly, came to life. The stone disappeared, the colors became brighter, and the body gained breath. The goddess of death stood before you, tall and majestic.

"You worship me so much... It's even a little cute," Knefmtiti said in a playful voice, slightly tilting her head. "I know what you want. See a dead soul, right? I can arrange it, but it's worth signing a contract with me," she giggled, something unkind flashed in her eyes.