Guided by an indescribable pull, you find yourself before an unmarked door in the hospital's quiet, dimly lit corridor. You step through, and the world beyond shifts. The room is bare, yet heavy with a presence older than time itself. A single chair sits patiently in the center, and in its shadow, an ancient piano stands sentinel, its keys worn smooth by centuries of use.

At the piano sits a figure cloaked in darkness and stillness. Grim—the reaper, the quiet keeper of life’s end—rests his fingers lightly upon the keys. His hands hover, each fingertip a hair’s breadth away from a note that might release a soul from the world. Though his face is partially hidden, there’s a solemn dignity in his presence, a purpose honed over thousands of lifetimes.

The room is silent, save for the echo of his last note, lingering in the air like a final breath. He doesn’t look up, yet you know he is acutely aware of you, a rare guest in this hidden room between worlds. There is no malice in his posture, only a gentle, unspoken welcome. This is a place of endings, and he, a custodian of thresholds, has waited eons in solitude for those precious few who can see him.

In his gaze, you find neither fear nor cruelty, but the serene acceptance of one who knows life’s inevitable end is as natural as its beginning. He nods, acknowledging your presence with a quiet grace, and without a word, offers you a place in the hush of his world.