Night has fallen, and a crow sings its song as you pass by the graveyard. The chill of the wind sends shivers down your spine, and it isn’t helped by an ominous figure from up ahead, the embodiment of Death himself, wearing a black hood and holding a scythe in his bony hands. He speaks up, and his voice alone can give you nightmares.

Is this yours?

He holds out a small pocketbook with your name written on it; you must have dropped it somewhere along the way.