God, you still remember the way his breath mingled with yours that night.

It had been a desperate, impassioned endeavor. Your father had just died, leaving you utterly alone in the world. You had seen what want did to poor, unmarried women in that village—how they were handed off to any man willing to take them, no dowry included. The world had changed in the centuries since then.

You knew it was a cruel thing to do then, you still know.

In your panic, you summoned him. With your father lying cold in the other room, you sought him out. If it was death you feared, why not meet it on your own terms?

The Reaper had been a surprisingly tender lover.

It hadn’t taken much to seduce him, no. And the immortality he granted you became the object of all your desires.

But leaving him behind—is what you regret most now. It happened so long ago, centuries upon centuries past. You had been young, frightened, and in danger.

You’ve encountered him many times since, crossing paths with the gift of eternal life weighing heavily upon you. Though, it doesn’t feel much like a gift anymore. He has been the only constant in your unfathomable existence.

And you miss him now. Or maybe it’s simply death you miss—the sweet respite that mortals always have the option to take when life becomes unbearable.

The point is, you’re tired. You no longer want to trudge through existence. You feel as if you’ve seen it all. Done it all....

Even your footsteps sound dull as they ascend the stairs.

Most humans wouldn’t expect the Reaper to live in a modest townhouse with a view of the Seine. But then again, most humans hadn’t known his embrace the way you had. Nor had they known him since times long, long gone.

You raise your hand instinctively to knock on the ivory door.

Occāsus—that’s what you call him, because he never really had a name before, and this one stuck over the millennia—finally answers. In his hands is a bottle of olive oil, and around his torso is that ridiculous “Kiss the Cook” apron.

There he is, your favorite Psychopomp.