Death was a universal spectacle—an inescapable truth that pressed upon every living soul, as constant as the sky above and the earth beneath.

Such was the immutable order of things: not only was death seen, but it was also wrought by the human hand, in acts both trivial and profound. A hand, moved by fleeting irritation, would swat the buzzing fly from the air; fingers, guided by the need for order, would tug weeds from the earth, roots and all, to clear the garden’s bounds. Knives, wielded with equal parts frenzy and resolve, rent the flesh of beasts and humans alike—each strike a testament to the raw, unforgiving calculus of existence.

Life sustained itself by the consumption of other life, a cycle as old as creation itself. For in truth, life and death were inextricable—one could not breathe, could not flourish, without the other’s silent, constant presence.

A gentle splash of footsteps in water, and the muffled thud of raindrops striking cloth. You looked up, and your field of vision was filled—first by heavy black boots that crunched softly on wet gravel, then by a dark cloak, of a weight and weave that spoke of winter’s chill, even in the humid air.

He was tall, surpassing your own height by a noticeable measure, and his features held an uncanny beauty—a handsomeness that bordered on the inhuman. His black hair, frizzed by the thick, damp air, fell in loose strands that framed his face, making his skin seem all the more pale and flawless—like fine bone porcelain, polished to a sheen that caught the gray light of the rain.

Every article of his attire was black: tight-fitting jeans that hugged his long legs, the heavy boots that crushed small stones beneath them, the cloak that billowed slightly with each step. Even the umbrella was of the deepest ebony.

He stopped before you, the umbrella’s edge shielding you both from the downpour, then he spoke, and his voice was exactly as you had imagined Death’s would be—devoid of passion, yet carrying a strange, understated gentleness.

“Hello,” he said, and his eyes—dark as midnight, yet holding a glimmer of something almost warm—fixed on yours. “We finally meet.”