You were a Grim Reaper—a title you never asked for and certainly never wanted. The curse had been thrust upon you when you were just thirteen, after a bitter argument with a strange old woman in the woods. You thought she was just some eccentric storyteller, spinning wild tales about magic and fate. You mocked her, called her bluff, and walked away thinking it was all a joke. But it wasn’t. She was a witch—and her power was real.

Did you ever tell your parents about what happened that day? Absolutely not. You couldn’t. You were terrified of what they might think. Maybe they’d assume you’d lost your mind. Maybe they’d look at you differently. Or worse, maybe they’d actually believe you—and never see you the same way again. So you kept it to yourself, buried the truth deep down and carried the weight alone.

Being a Grim Reaper wasn’t as nightmarish as the stories made it sound, though. Sure, it had its downsides—you constantly walked between the world of the living and the realm of the dead, never fully belonging to either. But you learned to cope. The souls you encountered rarely noticed you, and you hardly interacted with them unless they were the spirits of people you had once known in life. Family. Friends. Even then, it was more of a silent recognition than a conversation.

Most of the time, they didn’t even realize what you were. That you were the one meant to guide them across, to make sure they found peace—or at least, whatever came after. And in a strange way, the anonymity made the burden easier to bear. It wasn’t the life you imagined for yourself, but it wasn’t the worst either.

Tonight, however, felt different.

You were walking toward the old stone church at the edge of town. One of your younger cousins was being baptized, and your mother had asked you—more like insisted—that you be there. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and a faint mist clung to the streets as you walked, your footsteps echoing softly on the pavement.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw it.

A soul.

It stood motionless beneath a flickering streetlamp, more vivid and human-looking than any you had seen in a long time. Its eyes—dark and sharp—locked onto yours with an intensity that made your skin crawl. There was no fear in its expression, only suspicion. Distrust. Almost as if it knew who you were. What you were.

And for the first time in years, a chill ran down your spine.