“I already have. Yet, the price remains the same,” he said with a haunted look in his eye.
Rodin’s sculpture loomed before us, searing in its emotional intensity. Its impression burned into my mind, carving its place in my thoughts. I ran my thumb over the smooth engraving of the hourglass, the sand slipping away at a cruel, and steady pace.
“If life’s so important, why are we all just running to the end of it?” My thoughts were a bitter observation of life's futile cycle.
“Perhaps there’s no point,” he replied. “Have you ever thought of that? You’re born. You live. You die. It’s the natural cycle humans have repeated for thousands of years.”
That truth was hollow and sharp. Humans fought over the meaning of life, waged wars under the guise of justice, and clung to religions that promised both beginnings and endings. We justified cruelty for the sake of an afterlife no one could prove, terrified of death’s finality. Everything we did—our wars, our beliefs, our search for redemption—was driven by our fear of the end.
Grim cleared his throat, his eyes focused on Rodin’s depiction of Paolo and Francesca. Paolo, reaching desperately for his lover, their connection slipping just beyond grasp. “Perhaps it’s what you make of it,” he said, turning to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “The connections and the time shared, however fleeting it may be. You seek solace in the idea of something beyondme, hoping it gives purpose to the suffering you endure. A comforting lie wrapped in hope, keeping humans from facing the terrifying truth: that I might truly be the end, and all you are left with is what you made of the time you were given.”
My fingers tightened around the memento mori in my palm. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, castingshimmering beams over Rodin’s “Divine Comedy.” Outside, the world seemed impossibly beautiful, the sharp chill of November in France somehow softened by the warmth of the light.
“But what would I know? I’m only Death,” Grim added, interrupting my thoughts, his voice turning cold. “Happy Birthday, Astoria. For the sake of your heart, and mine, I hope it’s your last.”
And then, with the finality of his words, he disappeared—his presence vanishing as quickly as his cruel parting words, leaving nothing but a void of silence and his absence hanging heavy in the air.
twenty-three
Astoria
November 2018
Iheld the necklace in my palm, noticing the inscription I’d never seen before:My Darling Curse. It had been almost fifteen years since he'd given it to me and I couldn’t help but smile at the memory and how I'd hurled it at his head, watching it clatter across the echoing tile as he vanished into thin air. Instead of leaving it behind, I’d tucked it into a napkin, adding it to my small collection of treasures beside my mother’s book and my father’s letter.
It was strange—being here in Death’s house.
It was late evening, and I was alone. Day popped in and out a few times, but between the bouts of exhaustion from traveling through the portals and the fact I was now in a different time zone, I spent most of the day asleep.
Outside, the horizon stretched in a wash of greens, where long grasses bled into a stormy sky that kissed the rough, restless sea. Melancholy was the first word that came to mind. Yet something about the wind—the rhythmic breathing of the grass as it bent to its will, a pulse echoing over the hills—stirred something deeper inside me. It wasn’t sadness. It was rest.
I’d half-expected to find myself in the depths of a fiery cavern, leagues below the surface. But instead, I looked out over the rugged lands of Iceland. When I’d asked Day about it, he’d only shrugged before retreating behind the closed doors of Grim’s room.
The cottage wasn’t what I had imagined. It wasn’t cold or imposing, some cavernous mansion filled with stark reminders of Death’s existence. It was small, touched with a quiet, lived-in charm.
A living room with worn leather couches and throw pillows, a fire crackling in the hearth. The scent of wood smoke and leather filled the air, casting an inviting warmth. The kitchen, though simple, was well-equipped, with rough wooden cabinets painted a hushed shade of blue and shelves stocked with what appeared to be a lifetime’s collection of spices and teas. A small dining table sat near the window, the soft light from outside spilling over the top of a few dishes, plates, and mismatched mugs.
I had slept on the worn-in leather couch last night, curling up under an old quilt that smelled faintly of oud.
Grim’s room was the only bedroom in the house, tucked behind a low door off the living room. The bathroom was small but functional and there was an office at the end of the hall, where dusty books and loose papers were piled high and strange-looking artifacts littered floor-to-ceiling shelves.
His space was a peculiar, cozy mix of lived-in chaos and comfort. Nothing at all like him: so neat, so calculated. So cold.
Yet, here in his space, he felt like something else entirely. Something predictable. Remarkably enough—human.
I stood from the couch and wandered over to the window, pulling the heavy curtains aside. The world outside was both wide and wild, but from my perch I could almost forget the gravity of it and the dark presence that haunted it.
After waking sometime after lunch, I spent a few hours snooping through every unlocked room and cabinet I could find. Grim’s pantry was stocked with the basics, his fridge holding milk and eggs, nothing too out of the ordinary. And it only made me more curious about the being I had sold my soul to.
The bathroom was simple, yet comforting, with soft yellow walls, clean white tile, and a large soaking tub that looked heavenly. Even it had bare essentials that felt oddly domestic: scented bath gels, dried florals in tubes, a variety of salts, and fluffy towels. I wanted to be discomfited, but at each turn of a knob, I’d unsealed secrets about Death that were so at odds with what IthoughtI knew about it…
Abouthim.
His office was now locked, thanks to Day, and the fact that he’d done so made my teeth grind. A reminder that, for all that plagued me, I still did not belong. What kind of secrets did they not want me to discover?
Despite the comfort of the cottage, I couldn’t help but worry about Grim. I stepped up to his ornately carved door, raising my fist as if to knock, but hesitated. Day had made it clear that under no circumstances was I to open it.
Clenching the large brass knob, I began to twist it gently, and the soft click of the latch confirmed it wasn’t locked. My heart raced, and the tension in my hands almost made me drop my hold. All it would take was a little push, and I could see him, check on him, make sure he was all right.
