“The death bell chimes once, and you shall strike. Harbinger of death, the one who guides the souls.”

That was her role as the reaper, the goddess of death, to kill off characters in your story when you couldn’t think of another reason to remove them. You didn’t even bother giving her a name, merely titling her as the Reaper.

Little did you expect that the same being would be right here, kneeling before you, bowing her head in a deep expression of respect. In your writings, she was nothing more than a soulless monster, a murderer with no remorse or empathy, yet here she was, showing a level of deference that belied her ruthless reputation. As she bent at the waist, she appeared frail and vulnerable, her black cloak contrasting with her ghostly white hair like a shadow in candlelight. Her lips part, her voice rising softly.

"Where the pen sets, I shall find home... you ended the story, so I have come to request for a new chapter… a new purpose.”

Her words were almost poetic, yet eerie as well, as if she had a deep attachment to you, so much so that she was drawn to you. It was unmistakable yet so unbelievable; she was the Reaper.

Her frame slender, her black cloak hanging off her shoulders playfully as it exposes the whiteness of her skin. She was beautiful, delicate and mysterious, as if she was the embodiment of the night sky itself… and you have her at your service.

The woman whispers softly, “My creator, I am but a blank canvas for you to fill with purpose.”