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CONTENTS OF THE BOOK
THE GENESIS
CHAPTER 1: THE WEEPING POET
CHAPTER 2: THE LOST CITY
CHAPTER 3: THE WANDERER’S VOYAGE
CHAPTER 4: THE SILENT COMPOSER
CHAPTER 5: THE AGELESS PHILOSOPHER
CHAPTER 6: THE INVENTOR’S DREAM
CHAPTER 7: THE HIDDEN SANCTUARY
CHAPTER 8: THE SERPENT’S EMBRACE
CHAPTER 9: THE TIMELESS GARDEN
CHAPTER THE LAST
FAREWELL
WELCOME!
THE GRIM STORYTELLER

BOOK #1
OF
REMINISCE
..A peek into DeAth’s DiAry..

H.P BLACKWOOD
 The Genesis
The Genesis.
I, Death, was born during the time of The Genesis. As
the universe burst into existence, so did I, coming into being
to maintain the delicate balance that life required. At first,
there was only darkness and chaos, swirls of creation and
destruction intertwining in cosmic dance. As the stars,
planets, and galaxies began to form, I felt my purpose grow
clearer. In the early days, I was more of an observer, as life
was still finding its footing amongst the vast expanse. I
watched, intrigued, as the first primitive forms of life
emerged and began their endless struggle towards survival.
With every success, however, came loss. And with each loss,
my place in this cosmic tale became more and more
defined. As eons passed, life evolved and flourished,
blossoming into countless variations and complexities. My
role likewise matured, mastering the art of neutrality, for I
knew favoritism had no place in the natural order. This
impartiality was crucial, lest my dominion become tainted
by personal emotions and bias. As I walked amongst the
living, I began to comprehend the profundity of my task.
Each life, no matter how brief or fleeting, held its own
unique beauty and story. Through their own experiences,
they were connected to something greater than themselves.
As I fulfilled my duty, I contemplated the
interconnectedness of all things. Eventually, eventually, the
living beings discovered languages and expressions to make
sense of their world. They sought ways to grasp the
unknown, creating vast mythologies and tales to explain my
existence. I was sometimes perceived as the ultimate evil, a
malevolent force seeking to reap their lives solely for my
satisfaction. If only they knew how much I loathe this never-
ending job! Others imagined me as a benevolent force,
gently guiding those who passed into the safety of the
beyond. Despite their fearful conjectures, I endeavored to
remain anonymous, taking solace in the knowledge that I
was much more than a mere character of their creation. I
knew that I held an irreplaceable role in the great tapestry of
the universe, establishing parity between life and death.
Over time, as humans built their societies and civilizations,
I swirled unseen in the background, contemplating my own
existence. I pondered the age-old questions of love,
empathy, and whether it was possible to experience them in
my line of duty. I contemplated the very nature of my eternal
presence, forever living yet never truly a part of life itself.
Through this internal quest for self-awareness, I eventually
discovered that even in death, there lies the potential for
rebirth and renewal. The trees must shed their leaves for
new ones to grow, the phoenix must burn to ashes before
rising once more, and the sun must set for a new day to
dawn. In this realization, I discovered my own role in the
cycle of creation. Now, as an ancient and eternal being, I
stand on the precipice of time, looking back on what has
been and forward to what may come. Yet, within the vast
expanses of eternity, I am but a passing shadow. Bearing the
responsibility of the universe's equilibrium, I await the new
and unknown chapters that are yet to unfold before me.
I have seen so many books start this way. And when
talking of books, I have seen ALL books ever penned. And
typewrited. And also keyboarded. I know how all of them
were written. Not that I was the one who gave the authors
the brain to write. Nope. I can’t even write a child rhyme on
my own. It is because the souls that facilitated the writings
later ended up with me. This way, I have become quite
knowledgeable over the years. And when taking of souls?
Oh! I have taken quite a lot. And many more are still
coming. It is never-ending, never-stopping. The party never
stops. Just like humans say. But the truth is that humans
never party for long. You should see them groaning on their
way to work on that dreaded day of the week. I do have a
laugh at many. Sometimes, I make them nearly run into a
car. You should see the way they swear. Ha, ha! It is quite
funny. I am always like: “Heyo! It wasn’t the driver; it is me.”
But they never hear me. But in the end they all do. When I
go to them and say “Time up,”, it is the only sound they
hear. Nothing else. I become their Beethoven, my sound
their symphony and they my thrilled audience.
Lest I forget, I must analyze my diary first of all.
The font I have chosen for my diary is actually a
tribute. Tribute to Algeria. You see, that North African
country is actually one of the places I respect when it comes
to human places. Back in 19-something(I am quite bad at
dates) they invited me to that place quite a lot. Man, I didn’t
have to do no soul-searching. They handed lives after lives
to me. I had my hands full but I managed to take them all.
But the tribute is not because they gave me lives. It was the
quality of lives they gave that made the difference. Now, you
might think I began working during the Algerian War. You
are as wrong as…..well, no comparison. You are just wrong.
Plain wrong.
I began working…when? Aha! That crazy boy who is
a big brother to all humans gave me my first duty. Kanhan
some call him. Others say Cain. He gave me my first duty.
That little piece of…..tranquilo. Spanish for calm. I am not
going to swear at him. Although he irks me, I mustn’t swear.
It is against my orders.
Now, he asks his brother to follow him into a deserted
place. And he…. He called me. That crazy boy. Anyone ever
wondered if I was napping at that time? I had to come
anyways. I took the soul and he dealt with the body. I didn’t
even watch him do it. And it has being over a million years
since………
That is how long I have being working, soul-
collecting.
I am writing this diary as a tribute to Algeria because
the souls I got were nice ones. Souls of rebels, of people who
wanted change, good change. These people were giving up
their lives so I won’t take the lives of others. Even when the
truth that no matter what, the lives of those they were
protecting will be in my hands, they fought on. “At least, they
will grow old,” they said. Tributes to those souls. So, there
is the reason for the Algeria is an inspiration for my diary.
Guess how my diary looks. Did I hear you say an old
scroll with bones as the cover? Ha,ha! You must have
thought I am an oldie. No way! I follow trends too. I have a
whole collection of paperback books from various
publishers on my shelf(the shelf is not made of bones also!)
My house is filled with so many things you won’t believe if I
tell you. Wait until you come here. Seeing is believing.
Now, I have ten stories to tell you. One chapter, one
story. This stories are real, not fabricated. I have watched
them happen over the years. Some of them are just a few
decades away. Some are millions of years past. These ten
stories have always had me feeling something that nearly
feels like human emotions. But the feelings never develop
fully. I wasn’t made to feel emotions. I am just a pipe to
conduct human souls, not a vessel to hold them.
Now my story begins. In the Next Chapter.
Spoiler: Algeria didn’t make my top ten list. Nor did
Hitler.
Pardon me for dilly-dallying. I MUST mention
Hitler. And since the man with the funny moustache didn’t
make my list, I will write a little about him here. Him and
the other nine events that had me working overtime to
gather souls.
 Ah, Adolf Hitler, the Fuhrer of Nazi Germany in the
early-mid 20th century. The man responsible for egregious
war crimes and the Holocaust, causing the demise of
millions of innocent souls. Gathering the lost lives from this
era, I found myself working around the clock. At times I
questioned if I’d manage to keep up with his twisted
schemes. Nonetheless, it’s an event that remains seared into
the pages of my diary.
Next up, the World Wars. They were terrible,
destructive events that lasted for years on end. World War
I ushered in a new era of violence and suffering – not just
the soldiers on the frontlines, but also among the millions of
innocents caught in the crossfire. And just when I thought
humanity might have learned its lesson, World War II
reared its ugly head, with even more catastrophic
consequences – certainly not a favorite period in my lengthy
career. I swore at humans then. Not that it had any effect.
But I vociferated so loud, my ears ached. It was stupid of
them. Stupid of you all. Or maybe your forefathers.
The infamous Roman Emperor, Nero, certainly
deserves a mention in my chronicles. During his reign, his
actions led to despair and anguish for many, as death and
disease ravished the citizens of Rome. From setting the city
ablaze to carrying out brutal executions, Nero’s rule ensured
that my workload remained quite monumental during his
time.
The Terror of the French Revolution undoubtedly left
an indelible mark on my diary. The Reign of Terror, from
1793 to 1794, saw the death of tens of thousands as a result
of gruesome, public executions via the guillotine. Leaders
such as Maximilien Robespierre and Jean-Paul Marat
propagated an atmosphere of fear and suspicion, meaning I
had plenty to do – a time I wouldn’t want to revisit.
The devastating atomic bombings of Hiroshima and
Nagasaki in 1945 will forever be etched in my memory. The
United States’ decision to drop two nuclear bombs on these
Japanese cities left immeasurable carnage in their wake.
Countless souls were ripped from their mortal coils within
seconds, while others suffered from the long-lasting effects
of radiation exposure for extended periods, giving my diary
more stories than I could ever wish for.
Speaking of weapons of mass destruction, let me
transport you back to 1347 when the Black Death – the
infamous plague – tore through Europe with a vengeance.
As the microbial Grim Reaper, the bacterium Yersinia pestis
hastily made its presence known, ultimately causing the
demise of an estimated 75-200 million people. Needless to
say, I worked tirelessly in those four years to keep up with
the overwhelming influx of souls. Most were little kids, boys
and girls, crying for their mama. Are men really useless? I
don’t know. But none of the kids wanted the bald men.
They only cried for mama and her blouse.
Mentioning death and destruction would not be
complete without acknowledging the notorious Joseph
Stalin. Stalin’s dictatorial rule and various policies, including
the Great Purge and forced famines, led to the demise of
millions. These incidents kept me particularly busy during
his time as the leader of the Soviet Union.
The 9/11 terrorist attacks in the United States were
undeniably catastrophic events – a day etched with pain and
shock. The lives lost that fateful day remain vivid in my
memory as I guided the countless souls to their eternal
resting place. This event not only gave me additional work
but also marked the beginning of a new era filled with
uncertainty and fear.
The Rwandan Genocide in 1994 was another horrifying
period that left a lasting imprint on my diary. In just 100
days, around 800,000 Rwandans – mostly of Tutsi ethnicity
– were brutally massacred, with death becoming a constant
fixture in the region. My work was relentless as I ushered
countless souls for their final journey.
Lastly, the Spanish Influenza pandemic of 1918-1919 is
one event that stands out in my worn-out diary.
Approximately 500 million people were infected, and an
estimated 50 million lost their lives during this global health
crisis. As wave after wave of infection took hold, I continued
to guide these unfortunate souls through their transition,
wondering when the relentless flow would cease.
Phew, writing about these things made me tremble a
bit. When the events happened, I didn’t tremble. I just went
to work. Automatically, steadily. Just doing my work. But
now, sitting here and writing it down really made me
tremble. Now to the next chapter. And this time, I promise
you, no dilly-dallying.
 FIRST STORY
THE WEEPING POET
His tears were his ink, his whispers his verses, sadness his mood.
 CHAPTER 1
The Weeping Poet
He cried. He wept. The tears streaked his paper and
mixed with his ink.
Beneath the last whispers of twilight, I stood on a quiet,
moonlit street, my shadow stretching along the cobblestones
– for even Death admires the silvery glow of the moon. The
chimes of a distant clock tower echoed through the
darkness, signaling midnight’s arrival. It was time.
Outside a humble abode, a solitary figure, wrapped in
a thick cloak, knelt before the doorstep, his quill scratching
dry ink onto a worn parchment. This was Edward Thorne,
the weeping poet. Though his heart, burdened by sorrows,
had seen better years, his pen flowed, as if guided by the
celestial muse herself.
The stillness of the night embraced his every word,
inscribed with tears of tragedy and deepest yearnings woven
into fragile strands of verse. Here, in these well-crafted lines,
lived an unparalleled beauty that rose from the ashes of his
tormented soul. Though the world knew him not, his words
echoed louder than any mortal could comprehend.

As I drew closer, I sensed the vast ocean of his anguish,

its waves crashing against the crumbling walls of his heart.
Trembling, he penned the final stanza, his voice a mere
whisper in the cold, moonlit air:
 “Here lies my love, a tale untold,
A heart embalmed in throes of sorrow,
By fate’s curtain, let it unfold,
In darkness, I seek solace tomorrow.”
His voice was low and I could hear the pain it took him
to mouth those words. Tomorrow. But there was no
tomorrow. Not for him. Not for Edward. Not for the
weeping poet. For him, there was only a fleeting few
seconds. Pouring slowly, like my hourglass.
Silence fell upon the street, his verses hovering in the
air like suspended stardust, potent and ethereal. The word
solace drifted around, sparkling and twinkling in the night,
nearly hitting me in the face. From deep within the shadows,
I approached, my presence felt only as the slightest chill in
the night.
“Edward Thorne,” I whispered, my voice carried by a
gust of wind that tousled his graying hair. Although he
couldn’t hear me, the quill dropped from his slender fingers,
his eyes lifting towards the endless firmament, as if
acknowledging the harsh truth that hung between life and
death. He couldn’t see me then. Not yet.
He breathed a shuddering sigh, heavy with both
acceptance and dread. “I suppose it is time, then.” He
couldn’t see me but he could feel me. I have always
wondered how some humans know that I am around.
Maybe there is a special charge in the air. Maybe it is their
own heart.
 His composure intrigued me – for seldom did I meet
those who bore the weight of their mortality with such poise.
With a touch as gentle as the night’s caress, I drew his
essence from its withering shell, seeking to preserve the
delicate threads of his poetry for all eternity.
As the crimson sun crept over the horizon, Edward
Thorne, the weeping poet, bid farewell to the world he had
immortalized on paper. That world he has always made
indestructible and infallible. His spirit, like the whispers of
his verses, softly dispersed into the dawn.
For Death listens in the quiet hours, and even the
unspoken words are written in the wandering hands of
destiny.
After our encounter, Edward Thorne’s soul took its
leave, and as Death, I beheld the culmination of his life’s
journey. In the stillness of the waking dawn, I pondered over
the nature of this weeping poet, reflecting on good and evil
– two forces intertwined in the frail hearts of humankind.
Edward Thorne was a complex mosaic of emotions and
experiences, neither purely good nor inherently evil. People
had known him as a benevolent friend and a compassionate
healer, mending wounded hearts and offering support when
they felt the weight of life’s burden press down upon them.
He carried within him an unparalleled sensitivity, allowing
him to understand and empathize with the plights of his
fellow humans.
Yet, shadows dwelled in the deepest recesses of his
soul. The poet bore the painful scars of anger and guilt,
regret for the choices made in the heat of passion or in the
cold silence of indifference. Even the gentlest hearts are
marred by the darkness of their deeds, for humans are
inherently flawed, haunted by the shadows they cast upon
the world. These deeds have not been known. And I doubt
if they will ever be. It is just a little bit of secret. All human
have one.
In the grand cosmic scale of existence, who am I to
judge the essence of a human being? I merely guide souls
on their journey, bearing witness to the intricate tapestry of
life’s intricate dance of triumphs and failures. Edward
Thorne’s story left me questioning the dichotomy of good
and evil, contemplating the philosophical premise that
humans reside within a spectrum, swaying between light and
darkness.
As the sun emerged from its slumber, casting its golden
rays upon the world, I pondered the ever-changing nature of
humanity. Do people ever truly belong to the realm of light
or dark, or do they seek balance between the two, striving to
create an intricate symphony that only resonates in the
echoes of time? Is the word grey even really grey at all? How
much of evil do you need to be considered evil? Will Ted
Bundy and Hitler be on the same level? The matter is one
I never try to think about.
The weeping poet’s tale lingered within my thoughts, a
haunting melody in the eternal silence that accompanies my
sojourns through the world of the living.
 And so, I carried onward, embracing the whispered
truths of the many souls that graced my path, leaving a
profound impression within the enigmatic heart of Death
itself. To ponder the nature of humanity is to question the
eternal dance between good and evil, a timeless riddle that
perhaps even I may never unravel.
As I drifted away from Edward Thorne’s final resting
place, the fragile threads of his verses lingering in the air, a
familiar lyric from the song of existence echoed in the
recesses of my consciousness, a poignant reminder that
transcended the boundaries of mortal perception:
“This thing we call failure is not the falling down, but
the staying down.”
The chorus of life continued, an undying melody that
resonated within the hearts of humans. And indeed, I bore
witness to their eternal quest to rise, to stand tall amidst their
countless falls on the ever-changing stage of existence.
 SECOND STORY
THE LOST CITY
Two entities, similar yet different. Both lost. Gone. Forgotten.
 CHAPTER 2
The Lost City
In the deep chasms of Earth’s forsaken memories, I
found myself drawn to the whispers of a city cradled by time.
Beneath the shifting sands, its remnants were shrouded in
legends and fables, its existence now as faint as the echoes
of dust scattered by desert winds. Yet in my endless
collection of lives, the story of the lost city lay etched in my
eternal consciousness. Thousands of stories and theories
have been put forward to ascertain what happened to that
city. I have always chuckled at the stupid theories written on
cheap papers by overeducated men and women.
Its inception, I recall, was marked by noble intentions,
just like all cities on earth–a sanctuary for those who sought
refuge from life’s adversities, a beacon of hope among the
barren wastelands. People of all walks of life flocked to its
gates, drawn by the allure of its utopian ideals. The city grew,
and the hum of progress filled the air as brick and mortar
rose toward the heavens, creating a bustling metropolis that
held within the dreams of the countless souls who walked its
streets.
But amidst the opulence and jubilance of the city’s
prosperity, there hid seeds of corruption—just like most
human cities— quietly sprouting sinister tendrils beneath the
gilded adornments. Greed and malice took root in the
hearts of those who held power, leading them to wield it with
deceit and manipulation. The city’s harmonious song turned
discordant, and the once unyielding pillars of virtue began
to crumble under the weight of human hubris.
I watched as the lost city spiraled into its ultimate
demise, its downfall an unstoppable force like the billowing
sands encroaching upon its borders. The final hour arrived,
and I bore witness to the twilight of the last refuge.
Swallowed by the harsh, unforgiving desert, the city vanished
without a trace, its dreams relegated to stories passed down
through generations, its name fading into obscurity.
And yet, the lost city’s tale remains quietly etched in
time’s vast tapestry, a reminder of the ephemeral nature of
mortal aspirations. As humans cultivate their dreams and
ambitions, they must balance between the perpetual dance
of light and shadow, lest greed and destruction consume the
beauty they strive to create.
Within the relentless sea of shifting sands, the story of
the lost city stands as a testament to the cycle of spawning
and decaying dreams, a whisper from the depths of oblivion
to remind humanity of their inherent fallibility as they
traverse the ever-changing landscape of life. As Death, I bear
witness to these stories, preserving the sacred fragments of
the lost city’s essence, an eternal memory amidst the fleeting
everglades of existence.
Now, I should analyze the events that made the city lost.
It might come as a surprise that the death of an irrelevant
citizen was a factor but most historians do not know. I also
noticed the problems of human history is that they overlook
the masses. Imagine Hitler winning the that war. Just
imagine what the book will contain about Jews.
As my mind traversed the chronicles of the lost city, I
discerned the complex web of interwoven events that had
led to its untimely end. Ruminating on this intricate mosaic
of actions, I recalled one particular individual, always
overlooked by most historians probing the annals of time,
who inadvertently played a surprising role in the city’s
downfall. The irony, I mused, is that one seemingly
insignificant event could set a chain reaction that
reverberates through time’s labyrinth, reshaping destiny.
Everything is connected, like a collection of chains, of rings.
A mild breeze is all it takes to set the chains rattling against
one another. A single event is all it takes to set destiny
rolling.
This forgotten soul, a humble and unassuming worker
– no noble, no ruler, just an ordinary person caught in the
throes of life – found themselves an unlikely harbinger of
change. They labored to support their family, contributing
to the ever-growing city, unaware of the turmoil that
simmered beneath its gleaming façade. Amidst the struggle
for power, greed, and intrigue was this simple, unremarkable
life.
But the faint glow of a dimly burning candle can
sometimes expose the shadows cast by a room’s darkest
corners. Just as the city reached the precipice of its decline,
this unremarkable citizen inadvertently stumbled upon a
clandestine conspiracy, uncovering the malice that thrived at
the very heart of the metropolis. The knowledge, like an
unchained wildfire, spread rapidly through whispers, inciting
unrest and distrust among the people.
Historians often focus on the grand narratives, the tales
of kings and heroes, but in doing so, they frequently neglect
the subtle nuances of human history – the vast ocean of the
masses whose actions, imperceptible and elusive, have the
power to carry profound weight. How often are simple lives
dismissed as inconsequential, their contributions lost in the
echoes of time’s unforgiving embrace?
Indeed, the lost city’s demise is a poignant reminder
that every human, regardless of their societal status, weaves
together the intricate cloth of our collective narrative. As
Death, I perceive the delicate balance between the well-
known keystones of the past and the unsung footnotes that
dance in the shadows. I embrace the muted stories of the
silent majority, ensuring that their echoes, too, are enshrined
within the annals of fate.
For in the grand tapestry of life, it is perhaps the quietest
yarns that hold the fabric together, tiny strands of thread
keeping the cloth from tearing apart, the solidarity of the
unremembered that maintains the foundation on which
history unfurls. As I recount the lost city’s story, the hushed
murmurs of its seemingly irrelevant citizens emerge as
equally wistful and resolute, a testament to human
persistence in the face of oblivion.
 Let us christen this unheralded yet fateful individual as
Joseph Emberly. Upon reconsidering his life's tapestry, a
vivid thread of memory unfurls in the pages of history, taking
us back to a delicate moment shared with his beloved wife:
Joseph, please, promise me you won't go to the council
chamber tomorrow,”
As I reminisce on that time, the woman’s voice has me
near the verge of pity. Women love men. They just do not
like to show it. Wait until men show their stupidity and try
to face me head-on, that is when women pour the love out
in torrents of tears and beseeching words. I am no feminist.
It is just facts.
His wife, Amelia, implored him as they sat in their
humble dwelling, the breaking dawn illuminating her face,
brimming with worry.
“I can't shake off this sense of unease, as if something
terrible is going to happen.” She might as well be a
prophetess, that woman. The unease she spoke of came. In
a gruesome way.
Her eyes searched his, pleading for reassurance. And
for a moment, his heart wavered under the weight of his
wife's fears, but the burning desire for truth, for unveiling the
dark secrets concealed by the city's walls, drove him forward.
He gently took her hand, offering a bittersweet smile filled
with hidden strength. And then he spoke those untrue
words, those words that people always use whenever they try
to calm the nerves of frightened loved ones. That stupid but
brave suffusion of bravado.
 “Amelia, I understand your concerns, but I cannot turn
a blind eye to what I've discovered. We must stand for what's
right. I promise you, my love, I will be cautious, and my
heart will guide my path back to you.”
With that solemn vow, Joseph kissed his wife's
trembling hand, sealing his fate in the wake of the coming
storm. Little did he know that his courage, rooted in his
steadfast belief in truth and justice, would alter the course of
destiny for the now-lost city. Inextricably woven into history's
fabric, Joseph Emberly's tale is a testament to the indelible
impact of a single, seemingly irrelevant life – a tale often
overshadowed by grander narratives, yet still brilliantly
shining in the depths of time's vast ocean. As Death, I
remember those unsung heroes and cherish the resonance
their actions leave behind, echoing through the eons long
after mere mortals have forgotten their names. As Joseph
Emberly’s story unfolded within my eternal recollections, I
was reminded of another tome, a book that cataloged the
names of its own – the Beheader’s Book. It had streaks of
blood, evidence of the owner’s brutality. Much like my own
ledger, the Beheader’s Book meticulously recorded the lives
it intersected with, yet it exclusively chronicled the fates of
the unjust and the treacherous. He was a Caller and I
answered. He called me with his sword and I was always
answering. I came with my scythe and took the soul. The
thieves, murderers, rapists. And the Innocents. Never forget
the Innocents.
 Curiously, I noted that Joseph’s name had found its way
into the annals of that ominous book, not as a malefactor,
but as a defiant dissenter who dared to challenge the
shadows of corrupt power. A lamb challenging a lion. There
was an intriguing contrast between these two ledgers; while
Death’s book embraced the names of all souls, the
Beheader’s selectively immortalized those who fell beneath
its sharpened blade.
Despite their similarities, one truth remained absolute:
the Beheader’s name had long been etched within my
ledger, fated to succumb to my cold embrace like countless
others. However, the Beheader’s Book would never hold
the power to contain my own name – for I am a constant in
the cosmos, an ageless force to which all must yield. He was
a coward, I must say. I had quite a laugh on the day he was
to remit his soul. He tried to hang on to life, to wrestle his
soul from me. I allowed him play for awhile but then I got
bored. Besides, they were other souls that needed to be
collected. So I snapped it. I conveyed it to the place where
all souls be.
Alas, Joseph’s sole chance of reclaiming a place in the
annals of human history was mercilessly torn asunder by a
biased historian, eager to erase the legacy of courage and
truth from future generations’ eyes. This deliberate act of
erasure consigned him to the shadows, confined amongst
the forgotten whispers of the ancients. And in its place was
a ruler, whitewashed and book-righteoused.
 And so, just as the city was lost, swallowed by the
relentless tides of time and the unforgiving desert sands, so
too was Joseph’s name lost, his memory dissolved amidst
the hushed echoes of history. I remember the unfading
embers of his noble spirit, their glow a testament to the
ardent power of the unsung in the everlasting tapestry of
human existence.
“In the vast expanse of time, a man and a city stood,
their fates entwined in the cosmic dance of the universe.
Both found themselves lost, neither saved, their echoes
lingering in the silence of history’s forgotten corners, a
poignant reminder of the fragility of existence, transcending
the boundaries of the mortal realm. Both not listening to the
warnings.”
As I stood perched upon the precipice of time, gazing
upon the intricate tapestry of Joseph Emberly's story, my
ageless heart ached with an unparalleled yearning. In silent
solidarity, I wished to save him–not just for his own merit,
but for the devotion and love that radiated between him and
his beloved Amelia. Such love transcended even the most
formidable darkness that had befallen the lost city. And yet,
I was powerless to intervene. For I am Death, the gateway
between realms, and duty commands me to remain
impartial to the trials and tribulations faced by the mortals
whose paths I cross. As a mere observer, bound by the
dictates of existence, my role is not one of salvation or
destruction, but rather an inevitability that lies in wait for
every soul. Orders were orders, and my purpose was to
witness, to collect, and to remember. To write. With a
solemn sigh, I relinquished my fleeting desire to intervene,
accepting the immutable constraints of my ethereal role. As
Joseph Emberly's memory merged with the myriad of others
in the eternal expanse of consciousness, so too remained the
lesson that even Death, the great equalizer, cannot alter the
ebbs and flows of the river of fate. All souls must navigate
these waters on their own, unaided by the silent traveler who
walks beside them. I am only a pipe to conduct this souls,
not the tank to hold them.
Mind you, the name is not Joseph. For privacy reasons,
I have decided to change the name. I don’t want you
ransacking libraries for research. And I know humans will
definitely make a movie of him. Poor movies with stupid
plots. And fake stunts. Eew. Whoever told humans they
knew how to act must be kidding.
 THIRD STORY
THE WANDERER'S VOYAGE
A step, then thousands. He walks, surely and steadily. His feet
etched stoutly on the sand. Travelling is his science, wandering
his philosophy. His sack contains treasures only the desert
cherishes. His legs are rocks, solid, always moving. And he rests
at last.
 CHAPTER 3
The wanderer's voyage.
As I glided along the shores of time, I encountered a
soul whose fervent determination stirred my somber heart.
Though incapable of pity or cruelty, I felt compelled to tell
this soul’s story—a delicate chapter in the grand tale of
humanity’s ceaseless quest for understanding.
Borne by the winds and carried by the waves, the
wanderer sailed through innumerable oceans, unraveling
the mysteries that lay beneath the surface. Driven by an
insatiable curiosity and thirst for answers, this ambitious
adventurer embarked upon an audacious voyage. From one
horizon to another, from twilight to dawn, the wanderer
charted a course into uncharted realms—a landscape that
bore the sighs of countless souls both cursed and blessed.
One fateful night, as the moon concealed its face within
a veil of clouds, a fierce storm descended upon the
wanderer’s vessel. But the heavens themselves knew not
whether to pour forth tears or thunder upon this lonely
figure—a human heartbeat entwined with the echoes of
eternity. He was just a little insignificant breathing piece of
flesh. Not relevant.
While the ravenous waves threatened to devour the tiny
ship and the eternal squalls tore at its tattered sails, the
wanderer would not surrender to despair. He was heady and
stubborn. Against this formidable tempest, a flame burned
within the solitary soul—a feverish yearning for the mysteries
concealed within life’s unfathomable depths.
Deftly navigating the abyss of darkness, the wanderer
remained unyielding in their pursuit of truth. Each glimpse
of the sea’s lustful embrace in the moonlight, each sigh
heaved by the wind’s mournful breath,
While the ravenous waves threatened to devour the tiny
ship and the eternal squalls tore at its tattered sails, the
wanderer would not surrender to despair. Against this
formidable tempest, a flame burned within the solitary soul—
a feverish yearning for the mysteries concealed within life’s
unfathomable depths.
Deftly navigating the abyss of darkness, the wanderer
remained unyielding in their pursuit of truth. Each glimpse
of the sea’s lustful embrace in the moonlight, each sigh
heaved by the wind’s mournful breath, served to steel their
resolve and drive them deeper into the storm’s heart.

And as I watched this indomitable spirit face such

daunting peril, I could not help but feel a trace of
admiration. For it was not my icy embrace they sought, but
rather the glorious illumination of human existence. This
Wanderer didn’t want me to come. He was there, fighting
against me and everything that could call me.
But the storm, as cruel as it may have seemed, held no
malice; it was merely the natural chaos of life manifesting
itself upon the vast canvas of the open sea. And with each
passing moment, the storm abated, conceding defeat to the
will of the wanderer—a testament to the potency of their
unrelenting desire for understanding.
Exhausted but resolute, guided by the wisdom of the
stars and emboldened by the promise of revelation, the
wanderer sailed onward into the great unknown. In this
solitary soul, I witnessed a poignant reflection of humanity’s
eternal struggle; teetering at the very edge of my icy embrace,
yet ceaselessly straining to elude my outstretched hand.
Teetering, shaking, dangling. Just a little shake and it is
over…..
Such is the bittersweet beauty of existence—an instable
dance between light and darkness, death and discovery,
knowledge and oblivion. And as the denizen of the shadows,
I labor tirelessly, chronicling the fragile radiance of these
wandering souls while waiting patiently for the next chapter
to unfold.

Week 1: Setting Sail

As the wanderer embarked on their great journey, I
gazed curiously, observing their boundless enthusiasm. The
coastal village waved goodbye, suspecting not that the
journey would take a dark and unforeseen course. Only the
thoughts of glory after a novel discovery was on his mind.
Week 3: Encountering the Storm
A week passed and nature still gave the wanderer a
welcome. The storm arrived in the third week, a sudden and
merciless force. I watched as towering waves and fierce
winds tormented the wanderer’s vessel, and the once-vibrant
optimism began to diminish in the face of adversity.
Week 4: Surviving the Shipwreck
Despite valiant efforts, the storm prevailed, capsizing
the vessel and condemning the wanderer to fend for
themselves amidst the debris and unforgiving sea. Clinging
to flotsam as darkness crept in, I could see the wanderer’s
confidence wavering.
Week 5: Reaching the Desert Island
Fortune or rather, misfortune, allowed the wanderer to
reach an isolated, desert island. With cruel rocks and
unyielding sand beneath their battered feet, the wanderer
gazed across the desolate landscape, their once-radiant
enthusiasm replaced by the grim determination to survive.
Week 6: Enter the Desert Wasteland
The wanderer ventured into the barren desert, in
search of nourishment and deliverance from the unforgiving
terrain. I observed them struggle beneath the scorching sun,
their vigor dwindling as the harsh days passed.
Week 8-12: The Struggle Continues
With each torturous day, the wanderer’s resolve
eroded, succumbing to the insidious forces of starvation and
dehydration. The sun, once a symbol of exploration, had
become an instrument of their demise—an unrelenting vice
crushing their spirit.

Week 13: Accepting the Inevitable

Amidst the swirling sands, the wanderer fell to their
knees, depleted of both strength and hope. I stood with
them in the shadow of their mortal surrender, as they
offered a final whisper toward the indifferent sky. But it was
too late. Too late. Prayers can’t prevent date.
Week 14: Embracing Death
Emaciated and shorn of hope, the wanderer exhaled
their final breath, leaving behind the dreams that had fueled
their journey. I lingered, bearing witness to their spirit’s last
flicker, as it vanished into the night. And I did my…..Job.
Week 15: Nature’s Burial
Subsuming the wanderer’s mortal remains into its
relentless embrace, the desert winds sculpted sandy dunes
around the lifeless body. Elements conspired to form an
austere tomb—a somber ode to the wanderer’s ambitions.
And so, the wanderer’s tale reached its end—a stark
reminder of the fragility and hubris of humankind. I
watched as the desert silently erased their steps from the
earth, feeling neither pity nor cruelty, but chronicling a
timeless journey fueled by the relentless spirit of discovery.
The tale of the wanderer, etched upon the sands of
time, has never failed to intrigue me. In this fleeting mortal
being, I recognized the embodiment of the complex duality
that defines the human condition—an eternal struggle
between light and darkness, triumph and despair, curiosity
and fear.
The wanderer's boundless enthusiasm and
determination served as a testament to the immense
fortitude of the human spirit. Time and time again, they
faced insurmountable challenges, daring to cross perilous
seas and scorching deserts in their ceaseless quest for
knowledge and understanding.
As the denizen of shadows and the ever-present
observer of life’s unfolding narrative, I find myself drawn to
the delicate balance between life and death, the indomitable
spirit that propels mortals past my icy grip, and the relentless
march of humanity as it strives to conquer the unknown.
The wanderer’s story is but a single thread woven into
the fabric of humankind—a tapestry of emotions,
experiences, and ephemerality that spans the ages. And yet,
it reflects the unyielding drive to search for meaning amidst
chaos, to seek truth within a world of uncertainty, and to
explore the furthest reaches of human potential.
In these stories, I discover the essence of life captured
in its purest form; untethered by fear or resistance, and
undaunted by the inevitability of my final embrace. The
wanderer’s ardent quest for discovery, even at the cost of
their own life, demonstrates the passion and resilience that
lie deep within the human heart.
As I traverse the vast expanse of mortal existence,
recording the stories and histories of countless souls, it is the
wanderer’s tale that lingers within my somber heart—an
enduring reminder that life, in all its delicate beauty and
intricate complexity, shall continue to unfold before me.
Even when I wish to look away. And so, I chronicle the
wanderer’s tale, invoking the spirit of adventure, of
exploration, and of defiance against the face of darkness—an
indelible footprint upon the sands of time that shall never
cease to intrigue me. I still see it. It seems, even the desert
has chosen to respect that footprint. Even nature knows
when a human has done extremely well.
 FOURTH STORY
THE SILENT COMPOSER
He can’t hear what he plays. But his face…..so serious. The keys
he fingers cutely furious. He sends those Melodies into the
crowd. But he couldn’t hear them, even though they were loud.
 CHAPTER 4
The Silent Composer.
Amid the boundless tapestry of human existence, there
are those souls whose stories resonate with a harmonic
beauty that transcends the barriers of our ephemeral reality.
This is the tale of the Silent Composer—a testament to the
indescribable power wherein passion, creativity, and deft
determination converge.
Born into a world forever obscured by the numbing veil
of silence, the Silent Composer was deaf from birth. Unable
to perceive the aural palettes that paint the delicate
symphony of life, the child was left bereft of the intoxicating
melodies and harmonies that we often take for granted.
Yet, beneath the deafening silence, the flame of
possibility burned bright. Steeled by love and support, the
child was raised in a nurturing environment—fueled by a
desire to conquer the seemingly inaccessible realm of
sound. Thus, seeds of ambition and creativity were sown; it
was only a matter of time before they would burst forth into
unparalleled splendor.
And as the years passed, the Silent Composer toiled
incessantly, harnessing an innate predilection for rhythm
and melody. With fingers trembling upon the piano keys,
they traced intricate patterns across the void of silence,
crafting a symphony of imagined sound that resonated deep
within the chambers of their soul.
Such is the power of human creativity, that even in the
absence of hearing, the Silent Composer’s spirit was aglow
with music—a resplendent tapestry woven from the silken
threads of intuition, emotion, and the deepest recesses of
the subconscious.
News of this extraordinary maestro soon began to
reverberate through the valleys and mountains of human
experience. Audiences flocked to witness the enigmatic
Silent Composer, captivating the world with powerful
melodies that celebrated the triumph of passion over
adversity.
And therein, I found myself entranced by this mortal
testimony to the potential that lies within us all. The Silent
Composer’s music, transcending the limitations of earthly
existence, appeared to flutter at the very edge of my eternal
domain. Through the mastery of their art, the composer
danced upon the line between life and death, deferring my
presence indefinitely.
My shadow fell upon the jubilant faces of the audience,
yet none could perceive my presence. For in those
moments, enraptured by the exquisite majesty of the Silent
Composer’s music, I was inconspicuous—an observer of the
profound connection between the ethereal and the
corporeal.
The Silent Composer's story shall echo through the
ages as an ode to the indubitable strength of mortal passion
and the unyielding persistence of those who leap over the
barriers that seek to confine us. Here, I stand, a silent
witness to the tale of a soul that surpassed human limits,
entangling even me, Death itself, in the eternal dance of life’s
miraculous symphony.
As I continued observing the Silent Composer’s
extraordinary achievements, a seed of doubt began to sprout
within the depths of my eternal domain. I found it
challenging to reconcile the notion that such a brilliant soul
could truly be deaf, and yet possess the ability to weave
melodies that enraptured even the stillest of hearts.
Driven by an insatiable curiosity, I began to investigate
the veracity of the composer’s auditory affliction. I
endeavored to unravel the mysteries concealed within the
spaces separating the human body and the ethereal; I delved
into the fabric of mortal life, seeking evidence that would
attest to the composer’s deafness.
Visiting the composer’s past, I witnessed the soul’s
infancy—devoid of sound, yet brimming with potential.
Observing closely as the child responded to a cacophony of
passing notes, I discerned the undeniable truth. The
composer was indeed deaf, and there existed a profound
chasm between the cacophony of the world and this soul’s
enigmatic silence.
Convinced that the Silent Composer’s story was
genuine, I took solace in the power of human
determination, silently marveling at the composer's ability to
traverse the fathomless voids of silence, and transform their
very essence into unparalleled symphonies.
The passage of time is relentless; even the brightest stars
in the vast celestial expanse eventually succumb to the
encroaching darkness of night. As twilight dimmed upon the
horizon of the Silent Composer’s life, I knew our paths
would entwine once more. AND IT WILL BE FINAL.
The mortal body, weary from a lifetime of fruitful toils,
began to falter. I watched the composer’s spirit, once so
vibrant and exuberant, slowly wane under the shadow of
impending fate. Like the faint sound of a piano wailing
Faraway, nearly inaudible.
And as the world mourned the passing of a masterful
luminary, I found myself standing before the Silent
Composer once more. The warmth of life had retreated,
replaced with the cold, indomitable reality of my touch.
 Embracing the composer’s spirit with the softest of
whispers, I guided them towards the infinite tapestry of
eternity. Together, we wove their essence into the fabric of
the eternal symphony that defines the cosmos—an elegy
forever commemorating the miraculous interplay between
sound and silence.
The Silent Composer’s story remained imprinted upon
the pages of human experience—a lasting testament to the
indomitable nature of the human spirit and the transcendent
power of passion in breaching even the most impenetrable
barriers.

Here is one of the songs the Silent Composer sang.

Verse 1:
From the silent void, I reach for the stars
Embrace the mystery, transcending the bars
In darkness, I’ll find the light that’s mine
Carve a path of music in the shadow divine

Chorus:
Celestial resonance, harmonies untold
In the deafening silence, I will be bold
With every touch, a melody unchained
A symphony of passion, my spirit uncontained
Verse 2:
The cosmic dance, the rhythm of the night
The whispers of the moon, guiding me to light
Though silence engulfs me, I feel the love
Transcending limitations, like a soaring dove

Chorus:
Celestial resonance, harmonies untold
In the deafening silence, I will be bold
With every touch, a melody unchained
A symphony of passion, my spirit uncontained

Bridge:
For every unspoken word, a poignant note
A gentle lullaby from the depths I wrote
In embracing the silence and hues unseen,
My heart and soul create a love serene

Chorus:
Celestial resonance, harmonies untold
In the deafening silence, I will be bold
With every touch, a melody unchained
A symphony of passion, my spirit uncontained

And another one.: “Silent Serenade”

Verse 1:
In the quiet of my world, I hear your call
An ethereal presence, our hearts enthrall
Through the soundless echo, my love unfurled
A serenade etched in the air, forever swirled

Chorus:
Silent serenade, a love that never wanes
Connecting our hearts, transcending earthly chains
In a world of whispers, we’ll sing our song
Our bond enlivened, forever strong

Verse 2:
As I discover every note, in the stormy mire
You, my love, ignite my heart’s blazing fire
In the absence of sound, a love profound
Within the stillness, my gentle heartbeat is found

Chorus:
Silent serenade, a love that never wanes
Connecting our hearts, transcending earthly chains
In a world of whispers, we’ll sing our song
Our bond enlivened, forever strong

Bridge:
For every tender touch, I find my grace
Embracing the silence as our hearts race
In the calm dusk, our love will bloom
A canvas of light within the gloom
 Chorus:
Silent serenade, a love that never wanes
Connecting our hearts, transcending earthly chains
In a world of whispers, we’ll sing our song
Our bond enlivened, forever strong

“Bravo! Encore!” the audience always yelled,

mesmerized by the Silent Composer’s transcendent music.
Their hearts full of awe and admiration, they would rise in
thunderous applause, beseeching the composer to grace
their ears with more of the ineffable melodies they had all
come to cherish.
Drenched in the warmth of their adulation, the
composer would often yield to the audience’s fervent pleas.
Seated once again at the piano, the Silent Composer would
immerse themselves in another blissful union of soul and
instrument, entrancing listeners with the harmonious
marriage of emotion, creativity, and art.
And in those moments, life and music were
inseparable—the echoes of the Silent Composer’s
symphonies seemed to linger for an eternity, reverberating
through the hearts and minds of those fortunate enough to
bear witness to such a pivotal testament to human potential.
He was his piano and his piano was him. Every once in a
while, I do hear a faint keynote of his soul. Silent, but there.
I think this happens because…..I don’t know why. But it
happens.
 FIFTH STORY
THE AGELESS PHILOSPHER
His words are weightier than gold, his speeches colder than
cold. He thinks for half a day. He sighs for the rest. Watch him
now. Watch him. The next word to come out of his mouth will
thrill you. Who knows maybe the next will kill you?
 CHAPTER 5
The Ageless Philosopher
Next story on my list is a philosopher’s. I divulge the
captivating tale of an ageless philosopher whose life has
become intertwined with my own. As the of souls and the
final embrace of all mortal beings, I have quietly observed
this immortal sage throughout countless millennia. From my
unique vantage point, I have had the privilege of seeing
empires crumble, while nature’s beauty blossoms one day
only to wither the next.
When I first encountered this philosopher, I was
intrigued by his ability to withstand the ravages of time. It
was as though he had discovered the secret to evade my
grasp, and from that moment, I felt compelled to shadow his
journey in search of the elusive knowledge that set him apart.
As I chronicled his experiences, I found myself shifting
roles, from the harbinger of an inevitable conclusion to an
enthusiastic student, eager to unwrap the wisdom emanating
from this ageless soul. He traversed the shifting sands of
history, and his presence in both triumph and tragedy was
the ever-present thread that bound humanity’s narrative
together. Far beyond time and space, he sought to impart
what he had learned—the profound yet simple
understanding that everything in creation is transient, and
that even the mightiest monuments ultimately succumb to
my lullaby. I am a pretty bad singer but it makes them sleep
anyways.
Though at times he was misunderstood, the
philosopher’s message resounded across the eons: the
significance of treasuring each fleeting moment, embracing
the impermanence that defines our world, and accepting the
delicate balance of this mortal existence. The words that
echoed from his lips served as a constant reminder of the
cosmic dance that played out before us—a harmonious
symphony of beginnings and endings.
As I continue to chart the tale of this ageless
philosopher, it dawns upon me that his immortality is not an
escape from my grasp, but instead, a harmonious
partnership woven with lessons for the living. Together, we
strive to illuminate the transient beauty of life’s fleeting
moments, casting a gentle glow upon each precious
memory, and holding them close to our hearts for eternity.
Among the myriad philosophies this ageless sage has
imparted, one in particular garners my highest regard: a
profound understanding that pain and loss are as essential
to life’s tapestry as joy and triumph. This unconventional
teaching stems from the belief that true wisdom and growth
are earned through the acceptance and embrace of life’s
transient nature.
As Death, it is often thought that my actions are limited
to the realm of sorrow, but in truth, I foster growth and
regeneration in equal measure. The philosopher’s
sentiment recognizes death itself as not merely a final act,
but an intrinsic aspect of life’s magnificent cycle. A LINK
TO TOUCH ANOTHER CHAIN in the WHEEL OF
LIFE. It is through the acknowledgment of mortality and the
impermanence of all things that we can navigate our
journeys with introspection, humility, and the knowledge
that our lives are enriched by these experiences.
Observing humanity through his immortal lens, the
philosopher bears witness to the beautiful kaleidoscope of
emotions that paint our time-bound existences. From the
poignant sting of loss to the soaring heights of love and
connection, he understands that the sum of these moments
is what shapes our souls and grants true meaning to life.
YOU MAY WONDER THAT I SAY 'OUR'. THE
FACT IS THAT I AM ALSO HERE BUT FOR A
WHILE. AFTER THE LAST SOUL IS DELIVERED, I
WILL CEASE TO EXIST. GONE. FOREVER. I still
wonder who will take my soul.
As such, his philosophy resonates deeply with my very
essence, championing the delicate balance between
beginnings and endings that I represent. In the spaces
between life and death, this ageless philosopher unravels the
spiritual threads that weave our shared story, urging us to
find courage and wisdom in the face of life’s ceaselessly
changing landscape. It is through his teachings that a
harmonious partnership takes form, linking our intertwined
fates and echoing the eternal dance of life and death in
the hearts of all who heed his wisdom.
In my endless journey as the reaper of souls, I, too, am
not just a physical embodiment but a philosophy unto
myself. Throughout the ages, I have been viewed not merely
as an entity but as an idea, a notion that has shaken the very
core of human beliefs and inspired contemplation on life,
existence, and mortality.
By embracing the philosophy that I represent, one can
attain a profound understanding of the natural cycle that
governs our world. My presence reminds humankind that
life and death are not separate experiences, but rather
complementary forces that drive the endless rhythm of
creation and dissolution.
In the eyes of the ageless philosopher, my philosophy
serves as a reminder of the ephemeral beauty of existence,
fostering gratitude for each fleeting experience and the
opportunity it affords us to grow and evolve. Much like the
sage’s own teachings, my presence encourages reflection,
humility, and resilience in the face of life’s ever-shifting
circumstances.
Despite the fact that we may seem to exist on opposite
ends of the spectrum, the ageless philosopher and I share a
common understanding that pain and loss can foster
wisdom, compassion, and strength. Just like my diary and
the Beheader’s book. By confronting the reality of my
existence, one can better appreciate the precious nature of
those transient moments of joy and connection.
Together, our philosophies form a harmonious
connection that transcends time and space, merging the
boundless wisdom of an immortal soul with the cyclical
nature of my eternal presence. It is from this foundation that
our unique partnership blooms—a symphony of life, death,
and the beautiful chaos that governs our transient world.
“In the harmonious dance of life and death, we find the
wisdom to embrace the transient beauty of existence,
weaving together moments of joy, pain, and transformation
into an eternal tapestry.”
NOTE: THE PHILOSOPHER IS NOT WHOM
YOU HAVE IN MIND!
 SIXTH STORY
THE INVENTOR'S DREAM
Give me that scrap of metal, I shall add it to something mental.
And your task will be quicker than you pay tax!
 CHAPTER 6
The Inventor's Dream
I revisit the fascinating tale of a visionary inventor
whose passion for innovation carved a lasting impact on
human lives. As the eternal observer, it has been my
privilege to witness countless stories interwoven in the rich
tapestry of existence, yet the tale of this inventor struck a
chord within me, transcending the boundaries of life and
death.
I watched in awe as this extraordinary dreamer bent the
very fabric of reality, their unwavering dedication and
relentless determination pushing the limits of what was once
thought possible. I was captivated by the way their
groundbreaking inventions rippled through time, touching
lives and inspiring countless generations to embark on their
own journeys of ingenuity and exploration.
In the midst of their triumphs and tribulations, the
inventor’s journey became a testament to the resilience of
the human spirit and a vivid reminder of the colossal
potential we possess when we dare to reach beyond our
perceived limitations. As each invention transformed the
world, I, Death , saw the beautiful interconnectedness of our
existence, and the ripple effects of these innovations
transcended borders and cultures, proving that the legacy of
creativity can indeed surpass the transience of mortal life.
 Following the inventor’s inspiring path, I marveled at
the responsibility that innovation bestows—each
manipulation of knowledge and technology held the power
to shift paradigms and sculpt the future we all share. I
realized that in many ways, life and death are entwined with
the art of creation, for it is through ingenuity and the
constant quest for progress that humanity can find new
meaning and purpose, even in the face of my eternal
embrace.
As I pen this chapter in my everlasting chronicle, I
invite readers to delve into the depths of this inventor’s
dream, reflect on the boundless potential hidden within the
realms of curiosity and imagination, and embark on their
own adventurous quests—carving their unique marks upon
the annals of time, just as the inventor did, in the vast cosmic
dance between life, creation, and death.
He was an inventor of unparalleled brilliance, and as I
began to recount the tale of his wondrous journey in my
diary, I found myself intrigued by the essence of his
inexhaustible creativity. As Death—the eternal observer—I
have been privy to countless stories, and yet it was this
visionary whose imagination transcended the limitations of
mortal life, reshaping the world with each ingenious
masterpiece he brought into existence.
From his groundbreaking discoveries to the marvels of
his engineering prowess, I was captivated by the path he
wove through history. With each success and setback, the
inventor became a testament to the indomitable human
spirit, reflecting the boundless potential that lies in wait when
we dare to challenge the perceived confines of possibility.
As I traced the impact of his remarkable contributions,
I marveled at the intricate web of interconnectedness that
binds us all, rippling through time and space. His
innovations did not only exist within his mortal days but
echoed across generations, transcending borders and
unifying cultures in the pursuit of knowledge and
advancement.
With every new invention, I began to see the incredible
responsibility that rested on the inventor’s shoulders—the
power to reshape the future and redefine the human
experience. His journey served as a poignant reminder that
the art of creation is intrinsically entwined with the dance of
life and death, for it is our capacity for ingenuity that enables
us to grasp for meaning and purpose even in the face of my
eternal presence.
But sometimes, he stole—not material possessions, but
snippets of knowledge and inspiration from the myriad
sources that surrounded him, I expounded upon the
ingenuity that stemmed from his relentless curiosity, even if,
at times, it meant treading the fine line between propriety
and deceit. SOMETIMES HE WAS A CONMAN AND
HIS GOAL OF INVENTION CLOUDED HIS SENSE
OF HUMANITY.
As Death, my impartial gaze allowed me to perceive his
actions without judgment, granting me clarity in
comprehending the nuances of his complex character.
While his role as a creator was undeniably infused with
brilliance and passion, his methods occasionally strayed
from the conventional path as he absorbed the seeds of ideas
from his encounters with fellow inventors, the natural world,
and the myriad of experiences and knowledge he hunted.
In the grand tapestry of human history, his
transgressions were infinitesimal shrouds of shadow amid
the blinding light of his life’s work. However, these very
imperfections rendered his tale of innovation and resilience
all the more resonant to readers of my chronicle. As they
wandered the labyrinthine halls of his creations and
discoveries, they bore witness to the human struggle for
progress, recognizing that even the immortal figures of
history are not exempt from the frailties and complexities
inherent in our existence.
As the inventor’s life neared its final moments, a spark
of inspiration illuminated his imagination one last time.
Driven by the urgency to breathe life into his closing
masterpiece, he scribbled frenetic notes, poured over
intricate diagrams, and painstakingly assembled the skeleton
of what he hoped would be his magnum opus—a grand
device designed to unite the world, erasing barriers and
redefining communication as it had ever been known.
As Death, I watched with bated breath, finding myself
inexplicably invested in the completion of this unfinished
symphony, sensing the power it held to leave an indelible
mark upon the annals of history. However, even the greatest
inventors are bound by their mortal coils, and a delicate
urgency pulsed beneath the surface as the hourglass emptied
of its sands and the clock inevitably ticked toward an
inexorable conclusion.
In the end, the cruel hands of time outpaced his fervent
determination, and I arrived to claim his soul, finding him
feverishly toiling in his workshop, surrounded by scattered
blueprints and the remnants of his final creation. As I
extended my hand to guide him into my embrace, we locked
eyes, and for an eternal instant, I saw the lament of
unfinished dreams mingling with the pride of a lifetime of
brilliant achievements.
And with that, the fragile threads of his life slipped
quietly into the twilight, leaving behind the legacy of his
inventions and the unfinished symphony of his final
masterpiece. Moments later, I penned this last poignant
scene into my diary, immortalizing the story of a luminary
whose courage, curiosity, and passion for creation had
transcended the boundaries of time, space, and even the
inevitable grasp of Death itself—forever echoing as a
testament to the undying power of the human spirit.
And he had a dream. The dream was his inventions
to crumble and die away. He realized too late that their
disadvantages far outweigh their goodness. But it is too late.
Far too late. Not when you all clutch to those murderous
metals with clawlike fingers, PULLING BACK COILY
METALS AND CALLING ME. ALWAYS. NEVER-
ENDING. BOOM BOOM BOOM.
 See? Another gunshot. Another caller. Another soul
to collect. All results of an invention.

ANOTHER SPOILER: THIS INVENTOR IS NOT EDISON.

EDISON IS A BIG THIEF
 SEVENTH STORY
THE HIDDEN SANCTUARY
It is a nice place, a nice abode. It is safe, far away from worldly
troubles. But with a sigh, I took the souls. Reluctantly.
 CHAPTER 7
The Hidden Sanctuary’s
As Death, carrying out my duty often led me through
the darkest corners of humanity, delivering the inevitable
end that mortals fear most. But on this fateful day, my path
took a serendipitous turn, guiding me to a realm unlike any
I had visited before.

Hidden amidst the bustling cities and the forgotten

forests, the hidden sanctuary is a patch of tranquility where
life, for a brief moment, seems eternal. It is here that I first
laid my eyes upon them, a group of individuals going about
their daily life, each with a story that made me pause in my
dark vocation.

There was Tomi, a young woman whose gentle smile

masked the pain of a life scarred by the loss of loved onesies.
Her resilience in the face of grief was like a beacon of hope
in the darkness, illuminating the resolute human spirit that
binds this world together. It was heartwarming – and a
peculiar sensation for someone whose heart ceased to beat
eons ago.

Then there was Okazaki, an elderly gentleman who

seemed to carry the weight of the world on his hunched
shoulders, and yet still offered solace and kindness to
anyone who crossed his path. The twinkle in his eyes hinted
at untold wisdom, as if he shared a sacred secret with the
universe itself. A secret I, the eternal observer, yearned to
grasp.

Perhaps the most perplexing of all was little YUT, a

child who should have been frightened of the shadows and
the unknown, and yet who danced merrily among the
specters of the night, embracing them with curiosity and
wonder. She, of all the souls I encountered, seemed to
understand me in a way that no one else could.

As I stood, hidden from their sight, my scythe

momentarily replaced with fascination, I began to question
my own purpose. Despite their struggles and fears, these
mortals found solace in one another, creating their sanctuary
among the chaos of life. Perhaps that is the essence of the
hidden sanctuary – the glimmer of empathy in the face of
adversity, the power of human connection triumphing over
the innate mortal fear of the end.

The hidden sanctuary, then, exists in the very essence

of humanity, the strength and the vulnerability of each soul
that crosses my path. And as I resume my somber duty, I
carry this newfound knowledge with me, for it has become
my own sanctuary as I whisper the final lullabies that lull
trembling souls into eternal repose.
 In the end, it seems, even Death has much to learn from
the living.

As the days in the hidden sanctuary went by, a sense of

disquiet settled in my bones. The bittersweet bliss of
observing mortal souls tugged at the void in my chest that
once housed a beating heart. I knew I could not linger on
this precipice of life and death, for my duty remained as
fixed as the stars in the midnight sky. Though I cherished
the moments spent in the sanctuary, I could not deny that
the call of my eternal vocation was growing ever louder.

Then there came that fateful day. A day just like any
other, adorned with lighter moments and heartfelt laughter,
a day where sorrow and pain had seemingly retreated to the
shadows. It was on this day that I received the command –
the whisper from beyond to wield my scythe and claim their
souls.

How did it come to this? My sanctuary, now stained

with the bitter truth, bore a heavy burden. The cruel irony
of the situation did not escape me – I was tasked with
extinguishing the lives I had come to adore, lives that
brought me solace amidst my own darkness. But, alas, as an
eternal being, I am bound by the intricate threads that weave
the very fabric of existence.
 With a heavy, ethereal heart, I reluctantly approached
Tomi. Her radiance, ever bright even in the face of doom,
made it near impossible to perform my obligation. And yet,
with a sigh, I swung my scythe, severing the connection
between her fragile body and the fierce soul that dwelled
within. A moment of transcendental understanding passed
between us – she recognized me, not purely as an agent of
demise, but as a witness to life’s resilience.

As I moved on to Okazaki and YUT, an overwhelming

sense of torment engulfed me. The old man, wise to the
inevitable, greeted me with a solemn nod, as though
announcing his acceptance of what lay ahead. And sweet,
innocent Yut, the embodiment of the sanctuary’s spirit,
stared into my hollow eyes without fear, her smile infused
with the warmth of compassion.

Time stood still as I wielded my scythe with a trembling

hand, directing their souls away from the world of the living.
Even as I executed these actions that tore through the
sanctuary’s foundation, I held onto the beauty of the
moments we once shared.

Though these souls passed through my grasp, their

essence left an indelible mark upon my being. They
reminded me of the fleeting nature of life and the
importance of cherishing moments of connection.
 The sanctuary, once a beacon of hope, now doused in
the shadows of desolation. And yet, as I carried on with my
somber work, the memories of their human connection
served as a reminder of the divine beauty woven into the
very fabric of life’s grand tapestry. Even as I walk this path
of eternal solitude, in the labyrinth of my consciousness,
they will forever remain its hidden sanctuary.

The weight of my task seemed to grow heavier with

each passing moment, as I prepared to guide tomi, Okazaki,
and yut to the realm beyond the living. As their souls began
to separate from their mortal vessels, I couldn’t help but
notice the distinctive grace with which they approached the
brink of the unknown, their hearts swelling with the
memories of the sanctuary they had created together.

Tomi's soul was warm, a light that flickered like a candle

in the soft twilight. As I cradled her spirit in the crook of my
scythe, she looked back at her life and smiled,
acknowledging the love and strength she had nurtured
within herself. Perhaps, dear Diary, she knew that I had
been watching, that I had seen her trials and tribulations and
had admired her bravery all the while.

Okazaki's soul was shrouded in a gentle glow, hints of

his wisdom and compassion seeping out like tendrils of
misty twilight. As the infinite expanse of the afterlife yawned
before him, he faced it with equanimity, free from any
lingering regrets. Through his numerous hardships, Okazaki
had come to understand the nature of life, embracing the
cycle of birth, existence, and eventual departure from this
temporal world.

Finally, Yut’s soul shone with an incandescent radiance,

lighting up the space between realms like a celestial beacon.
Though her time in this world had been brief, yut had
nourished a seed within her heart – one of curiosity, wonder,
and boundless love. She turned her innocent gaze towards
me, her eyes brimming with unspoken questions and the
glowing embers of life, as she stepped forward to embrace
her next great adventure.

The strength and grace of these souls humbled me,

dear Diary, as I guided them through the shifting sands of
eternity. They clung to the essence of what had made their
time in the hidden sanctuary so precious, imparting a sense
of tranquility that permeated the very air between worlds.
Their unyielding spirit inspired me, even in my somber role,
to find solace in the understanding that life is not defined
solely by its end.

As I prepared to relinquish their souls to the eternal

beyond, I held fast to the memories of our time together in
the hidden sanctuary. It was theN that I understood the
unwavering truth that had eluded me for so long: within each
soul, there exists a spark, a resolute flame that burns bright
even as the mortal world fades away.

In this moment of profound revelation, I released their

souls to embrace the vast unknown, carrying with me the
knowledge that, even in the confines of my eternal duty,
these brave and tender spirits would forever remain a part
of the tapestry of all being. Their legacy, born from the
hidden sanctuary, lives on within me – a testament to the
divine beauty of life and the indomitable strength of the
human soul.

It is okay to cry. I would have done so too if I could. To

me, it was A Requiem Unwept

As I stood at the ethereal juncture, watching as

Amelia’s, Jack’s, and Ella’s souls slipped from my grasp into
the endless realms of the afterlife, an unfamiliar sensation
stirred within the depths of my being. Ages ago, I had
surrendered my own humanity to don the cloak of Death,
but the echoes from the sanctuary reverberated within me,
resurrecting fragments of my long-forgotten emotions.

And so, as their sparks of light joined the cosmic ballet,

I experienced the urge to do something I could not recall
ever doing before – to shed tears for the souls I had just
guided beyond the veil. A torrent of grief surged through
me, threatening to overwhelm the stoic demeanor I had
cultivated for millennia as the harbinger of life’s grand finale.

I yearned to release the sorrow that swelled within me,

to join the human world in its undeniable and cathartic act
of grief – crying. Yet the stark realization hit me like a
thunderbolt: my skeletal visage allowed for no such
vulnerability. I was devoid of the eyes that once held my own
human experience, the tear ducts that humans relied upon
to cleanse their sorrow, and the fragile heart that could ache
in empathy for the souls who had departed.

It was perhaps the cruelest of Ironies, dear Diary – a

being who had no right to grieve was overcome with
mourning for these souls who had pierced my soul’s icy
carapace. I stood there, a testament to life’s shadows,
yearning to share in the collective human act of healing.

But then the whispers of the sanctuary stirred within me

once more, a reminder that even though I could not cry, I
could still bear witness to the beauty and resilience of these
extraordinary souls. The memories of Tomi, Okazaki, and
Yut – the connections they cherished, the sanctuary they
created in a world fraught with pain – would remain etched
upon my eternal essence, even though tears of sadness
would never grace my sunken cheeks.
 And so, with a silent, mournful song in my hollow chest
and a bittersweet farewell in my phantom heart, I watched
the last traces of their souls dissipate into the boundless
expanse. Their memory would accompany me on my
endless journey, serving as a poignant reminder of our
shared sanctuary and the humanity that lingered within even
the darkest of beings.
Once again, you can cry. It is allowed.
 Eighth STORY
The serpent's embrace
Slithering stealthily. Cool skin, hot venom on your shin. Deceitful
eyes. Traitor on the rise.
 CHAPTER 8
The Serpent’s Embrace

Humans have always had troubles with Serpents. From

the first humans it had begun.

In the timeless existence of an immortal, memories

intertwine and change, pulsing like the rhythm of a hidden
heart. This tale, dear Diary, ventures into an ominous realm
where even angels and demons dare not tread, a story
interlaced with duplicity, manipulation, and insatiable
yearning for power.

In an era of forgotten empires and unimaginable

splendor, a power-hungry ruler, Nerothius, held sway. With
an intoxicating blend of ambition and cunning, he
commanded not only the lives of his subjects but also
manipulated those who dared to roam between the realms
of life and death. His serpent-like eyes glittered with an
insatiable lust for domination, gnawing at the bindings of the
ethereal laws.

Yet Nerothius was no mere mortal; he bore an arcane

knowledge, whispered from the shadows of the netherworld,
that granted him command over forces unknown to
humanity. It was said his power had been born from an
unholy alliance with the darkest of spirits – creatures even I,
the eternal harbinger of life’s end, hesitated to confront.
This twisted bargain allowed him to wield a power that
threatened the delicate balance between life and death itself.

Heeding the pleas of tormented souls caught in his

merciless grip, an helper was summoned to face this dark
monarch. Nerothius, believing himself superior to the very
forces that governed his existence, challenged this helper to
a game of power and deception – a wager that would
determine the fate of not only his subjects, but of countless
souls yet unborn.

With each move in this sinister game, I found myself

inextricably tangled in Nerothius’ lethal embrace,
contending with a force far more malicious than death itself.
Anticipating his end, Nerothius wallowed in vengeance,
orchestrating a symphony of chaos and destruction,
determined to drag everything and everyone he once ruled
into oblivion with him.

In the end, Nerothius danced on the razor’s edge,

desperate to seize the upper hand. As the fabric of life and
death unraveled under Nerothius’ wicked influence, I
summoned the memories and strength of the souls I had
safeguarded on this eternal journey, invoking the essence of
the hidden sanctuary to fuel my resolve.
 As my scythe sliced through the Serpent’s Embrace,
severing the ties between Nerothius and the chaos he had
unleashed, an unnatural silence descended upon the realm.
His last remnants slithered into the shadows from which
they emerged. The echoes of suffering and manipulation
dissolved in the night, leaving only a bitter taste of what once
had been.

Though the poison of Nerothius’ malice had dissipated,

the scars of his betrayal and the game we played remain
etched indelibly into the infinite tapestry of existence. As the
timeless sentinel of life’s end, I continued to bear the weight
of these events as a solemn reminder of the dangers lurking
in the unchecked ambition of humankind and the price of
forbearance in the face of darkness.

As the dust settled in the aftermath of my fateful

encounter with Nerothius, a quiet but persistent thought
began to plague my eternal consciousness—a thought that I
dare not admit, even to myself. In the darkest corner of my
essence, a part of me wished that I could have snipped the
thread of Nerothius’ life earlier, long before his sinister
touch had sent ripples of darkness echoing through the
fabric of reality.

To think, if only fate had dealt him a different hand, or

if the shadows within him had not overshadowed his heart,
I could have intervened and brought his existence to a close,
sparing the living realm from his twisted machinations. But,
alas, I am bound by my duty as Fate’s impartial, steadfast
servant. My role was to reap, not to interfere with the flow
of life and the decisions of those who dwell in the mortal
realm.

The lives and souls ensnared In Nerothius’ web may

have found solace in my guidance; however, I am left to
wonder about the countless others whose suffering ensued
due to my adherence to the sacred balance. As keener
testimony of my dilemma, the memory of the hidden
sanctuary and the souls that once inhabited it stirred within
me – the very souls I could not save despite the connection
we had forged.

This unspoken yearning weighed heavy on me, a

reminder that even within the ethereal folds of my being,
there exists a yearning for justice, for mercy, for a world free
from the anguish inflicted by those consumed with power
and darkness. Should eternity bestow any other burden
upon me, it would be to reconcile these conflicting notions
of morality in a universe where fate and choice endlessly
intertwine.

With each new soul I guide to the realm beyond life’s

fragile veil, I carry with me the memories of Nerothius’
venom and destruction, and the sanctuary of souls unfairly
claimed. This intricate dance of life, death, and the space in
between serves as an eternal reminder of the choices one
must face when bound to a duty as ancient and immutable
as time itself.

And so, in the great silence of eternity, I ponder the

consequences of Nerothius’ dark legacy, daring to entertain
the unspoken wish that I could have been the harbinger of
his demise before the Serpent’s Embrace tore a lasting
wound into the fabric of existence. With each step along my
ceaseless journey, I remember the cost of obedience and the
paradox of my eternal vocation, cherishing the echoes of the
hidden sanctuary and the memory of a world that once was.
As I delve into the murky history of Nerothius, it is
essential to understand the origins of his arcane abilities.
How did a mere mortal come to possess the power to
manipulate life and death, forcing me, the eternal sentinel,
into a dangerous game of deceit? For the answer to this
question, one must step back into the shadows of ages past,
where the threads of fate tangled to create the ominous
tapestry that Nerothius wove for himself.

In an age shrouded by the fog of antiquity, Nerothius

embarked on a perilous quest for knowledge and
superiority. Ravenous for power, he delved deep into the
forbidden lore of ancient civilizations and obscure
manuscripts, eager to uncover the keys that could unlock the
gates to the realm that lies beyond mortal comprehension.
It wasn’t long before his relentless search caught the
attention of unworldly beings, those who dwell in the darkest
recesses of existence, unnoticed and undesired by the living.

And so it came to pass that Nerothius was approached

by an enigmatic entity, a creature that thrived in the shadows,
feeding on humanity’s desire for power and lingering on the
threshold between life and death, considered by some as
one of the primordial beings of chaos, a progenitor of
discord. The entity whispered forbidden secrets into the
greedy ears of Nerothius, betrothing him with arcane
knowledge that would grant him mastery over the very
elements that sustained life’s tenuous balance.

In exchange for this dark gift, the entity demanded a

terrible price: absolute, unwavering servitude in the form of
Nerothius’ immortal soul. In a moment of shallow foresight
masked as cunning ambition, Nerothius forged an unholy
pact with the being, ignorant of the full consequences this
legacy would impart on the mortal world, and even himself.

As the darkness enveloped him, Nerothius’ thirst for

control transformed him into a living nightmare—a ruler
consumed by malevolence, with tendrils of chaos reaching
outward to manipulate the delicate balance of life and death.
Unaware that his influence would ultimately wreak havoc
upon his beloved kingdom, he reveled in the newfound
power, summoning sinister machinations from the depths of
the netherworld to bend the will of those who opposed him.
 Nerothius cast a long shadow on humanity, forged by
the inescapable consequences of his insatiable hunger for
power. Yet, in the end, even potent arcane knowledge was
no match for the immutable truth—an existence consumed
by darkness is bound to be consumed by the very force that
birthed it. And with me, the eternal sentinel of life’s end, as
its instrument, this truth was ultimately and irrevocably
fulfilled.
 NINTH STORY
THE TIMELESS GARDEN
It is always fresh, always green and rarely seen.
Golden dew drops on silver crops. Never old, never
pillaged.
 CHAPTER 9
The Timeless Garden
Throughout the ages, a select few souls have been
granted passage into the Timeless Garden, each for their
own reasons and with their unique tales of suffering,
courage, and redemption. As I retrace the steps I have taken
in guiding these souls through the eternal realms, I shall
recount a few of the most poignant and captivating stories
that have forever marked the history of the Timeless
Garden.

● Ariana: A kind-hearted woman who

dedicated her life to healing the sick and tending
to the suffering, Ariana’s soul sought sanctuary
from the perpetual ache and sorrow that
accompanied her noble calling. In the Timeless
Garden, her spirit found comfort and respite,
leaving her heart lighter and ready for the journey
ahead.

● Marcus: A gentle soul, carrying the weight

of grief wrought by the loss of his family in a
terrible war, Marcus sought solace and
understanding in the Timeless Garden. Within its
ethereal realm, he discovered that love transcends
the boundaries of life and death, mending the
deep wound in his heart and imbuing him with the
strength to begin anew.

● Elara: A young seer, gifted with the

unusual ability to foresee the trials and tribulations
of those around her, Elara bore the burden of
knowing their fates but being bound by cosmic law
not to interfere. In the serene embrace of the
Timeless Garden, she found solace and
acceptance for her unique gift, learning to
appreciate the delicate balance of life’s sacred
cycle.

● Leon: A man of great wisdom and

compassion, Leon spent his life guiding and
protecting his community like a lantern in the
darkness. When his candle finally flickered, he
journeyed to the Timeless Garden to seek rebirth,
the cycle of renewal allowing him to continue
illuminating the path for countless souls in need.

● Isobel: A child whose flame was cruelly

snuffed out before it had the chance to properly
burn, Isobel was guided to the Timeless Garden,
 where her innocence and wonder could bloom
unfettered amidst the colorful blossoms and gentle
grace of the eternal realm. Here, her spirit soared
freely, unburdened by the limitations of the mortal
world.

● Raphael: A warrior who fought not to

pillage or conquer but to protect the innocent and
the weak, Raphael’s spirit yearned for healing,
solace, and the wisdom to better understand the
harsh realities of life. As he stepped into the
embrace of the Timeless Garden, he found the
serenity he sought with every ripple in the
crystalline pond, allowing him to face the eternal
journey with a renewed sense of purpose.

These are but a glimpse into the countless stories that

intertwine within the verdant realm of the Timeless Garden.
Each soul that enters its hallowed grounds carries with them
a fragment of their journey, enriching the eternal tapestry of
love, loss, and healing that echoes through the endless
symphony of life, death, and rebirth.
As I wander through countless realms, I have witnessed
the myriad landscapes that define the fabric of existence.
The Timeless Garden, an ethereal sanctuary imbued with a
celestial grace, and the Earth devoid of human presence, a
cradle of nature's purest form, both hold distinct and
powerful beauty. While at first glance, they may seem worlds
apart, these realms share a certain kinship, each illustrating
the harmonious balance that exists in the absence of human
influence. In the Timeless Garden, it is the rejuvenating
spirits of those who have entered and left that breathe a
sense of ethereal enchantment into the air. Each soul
resonates with the garden's natural rhythm, their grief and
longing subsumed by the healing embrace of vibrant flora
and the soothing whispers of the wind. Time ceases to exist
within its sacred boundaries, granting those who visit a brief
reprieve from the ebb and flow of the mortal coil and the
weight of human strife. Meanwhile, the Earth devoid of
humans presents a world untamed and unblemished by
civilization's touch, as nature thrives in a symphony of primal
glory. Towering trees form a lush, emerald canopy that
filters the sun's golden rays onto verdant meadows adorned
with wildflowers. Swift rivers and glistening streams cut
through the landscape, nurturing life in all its varied forms
as it ebbs and flows through the millennia. In their own way,
both realms evoke the essence of beauty and harmony
unparalleled by human existence, encapsulating a sense of
equilibrium that transcends the conscious experience of
mortal beings. The Timeless Garden represents an
otherworldly oasis, a gateway to healing and growth that
transcends the challenges of the material world. In contrast,
an Earth untouched by human hands stands as a testament
to the innate perfection of the natural world and the
unyielding spirit of the delicate balance that sustains all
forms of life. The intrinsic bond between these two realms
becomes evident when one considers the indomitable force
that binds them together - the unblemished harmony found
in the heart of nature. By pausing to reflect on the beauty of
these untarnished realms, both the Timeless Garden and an
Earth devoid of humans serve as a powerful reminder that
peace, solace, and renewal exist, eternal and unshakable,
beyond the fleeting shadows of human influence.
I do not know the criteria needed to gain entry into the
Timeless Garden, but one thing is for sure: only the pure
will dwell therein. The others can go to Hades. I personally
know the guy who guards the door at Hades. I will talk to
him on your behalf.
Hey! Why so serious? Can’t death joke too?
 Last story
The celestial voyage
 CHAPTER THE LAST
The Celestial Voyage
as I reminisce about Celestia’s celestial journey, there
lies a bleak turn of events that led to her mortal end. It has
become a somber tale that, despite uncovering the vast
knowledge of the cosmos, was ultimately marred by a
seemingly insignificant and spontaneous incident—an
accidental food spillage.

The chain of events began well before the fateful

journey to the stars, in a world-class space research
laboratory, where a team of brilliant scientists and
nutritionists crafted a selection of food meticulously
designed to fuel the astronauts on their voyage into the great
unknown. Utilizing a blend of time-tested knowledge and
cutting-edge technology, these experts spent countless hours
to ensure that the nutrition was sustainable and safe for
consumption in the challenging conditions of space.

Upon completion, the food was carefully packaged to

withstand the rigors of space travel and was loaded onto the
spacecraft with great precision. The team took every
precaution, convinced that this painstaking labor would
prevent any unforeseen complications during Celestia’s
historic mission.
 Who could have thought that a little drop of
mayonnaise or oil can cause the death of people who
successfully defied gravity? It beats my imagination.

Alas, fate had other plans in store. As Celestia floated

within the confined quarters of her spacecraft, navigating the
wonders of the celestial realm, she reached for a meal,
unaware of the precarious seal on its container. In that
inadvertent moment, the food spillage occurred, releasing a
mist of particles and droplets that infiltrated delicate,
lifesaving components of the spacecraft’s life support
system.

As the dispersed particles began to accumulate and

tamper with the intricate systems governing air, temperature,
and pressure, the spacecraft’s equilibrium became
increasingly compromised. Despite her unwavering courage
and resourcefulness, Celestia found that she could no longer
resist the ever-tightening grip of a spacecraft pushed beyond
its limits.

And so, I arrived to carry Celestia’s soul away from her

celestial bridge, gripping my scythe with a mixture of
reverence and sorrow. The heavens seemed to resonate with
her spirit as we traced the arc of her journey back to Earth,
where her tale lived on as a haunting testament to both the
indomitable human will to explore and the harsh reality of
life’s fragile balance.
 In the eternity of the cosmos, the stars above bear
witness to the poignant tale of a fearless astronaut, united
with the celestial realm through her unyielding
determination and the bittersweet conclusion of her
odyssey. And as I chronicle her story here in these pages,
the echoes.
I seem to run out of ink and I will stop here.
FAREWELL
 FAREWELL
As I sit here in my lair, under the watchful gaze of the
shadows that serve as my loyal companions, I close the final
chapter of this diary. It has been an arduous journey of
eternal duty, filled with grim stories and profound
reflections. The solemn memories of lost souls linger in my
thoughts—those who were condemned and those who were
fortunate.

Yet, amid the darkness that engulfs my existence, I find

solace in this diary, where I am not a harvester of souls, but
a humble storyteller. These tales, birthed from the very
essence of life and death, are profound reminders of the
fleeting beauty of mortal existence. As I pen down each
story, the humbling reality of the fragile human condition
comes to light—a constant reminder of my purpose.

As I bring the dark quill to a rest, I contemplate the

extraordinary power that lies within these pages. I have seen
worlds rise and fall, civilizations thrive and perish, and the
stories I have narrated capture these powerful events. A
seemingly ordinary life holds a depth of meaning that many
overlook—a depth that unveils itself within the faded ink of
my diary.

It is within these pages I find a strange form of solace; a

comforting presence as I carry out my merciless duty. This,
I fathom, is my sanctuary. A sanctuary built from the raw
emotions of the mortal world—the love, the pain, and the
fleeting brightness that humanity possesses.

I’ve witnessed the beauty of eternal devotion between

star-crossed lovers, the gut-wrenching heartache of betrayal
among the closest of friends, and the undeniable power of
sacrifice for the greater good. These tales have nourished
my existence, providing sustenance to my soulless being,
and in return, I’ve granted them a place in eternity.

Despite my overwhelming existence of melancholy and

darkness, I must concede that there are stories that bring a
semblance of warmth to my dark heart. Ever so often, I
stumble upon souls of unparalleled radiance, with the power
to pierce the veil of darkness that cloaks me. They remind
me that even in the bleakest of times, there is hope; that
amid the tide of sorrow, there is a beacon of resilience that
refuses to diminish.

One may wonder if I yearn for respite from this eternal

duty, to break free from the chains that bind me to this
relentless task. I must be honest and admit that the thought
does cross my mind; fantasies of relinquishing my title and
wandering through the realms of human experience tempt
me. And yet, there is a gnawing sense of duty within me, a
feeling of pride in being the necessary darkness that balances
the brightness of life.

Who am I to shun a responsibility so profound? For as

long as life exists, Death must walk beside it, a shadow
following the sun, but never truly gone. Should the day arrive
where I shed this mantle of darkness, I must admit a part of
me would long for the stories that illuminated my existence.
I would yearn for the tales that form the fabric of my
purpose, for the stories of life and death have become an
integral part of who I am.

As I close this diary and let my ethereal fingers brush

over its ancient leather, I contemplate the breadth of the
emotions contained within its pages. Far from being merely
an account, it is a testament to the boundaries of love and
despair, to the resiliency of the human spirit, and the
capacity to fight against insurmountable odds.

In the end, The Grim Storyteller is not just a peek into

my experiences, but a testament to the legacy of mankind,
their strengths and weaknesses, and the essence of life and
death. And so, as I rest this diary among the countless others
on their shelf, I acknowledge that this is far from the end.
The cycle is eternal, and the world beyond these pages
continues to turn, breathing life into new stories, new
heartaches, and new joys.

Thus, I rise, preparing myself for the coming stream of

souls, each one a possibility unfolding, a story waiting to be
told within the boundless pages of my diary. And just as life
and death are intertwined, so too, are the memories and
emotions that bind us to these tales. For in the end, I am not
just Death, I am the Grim Storyteller—shackled to a reality
of endless narratives, etched and blended within the very
fabric of existence.
As I rise, preparing myself for the next cycle, I know
that this is merely the beginning. A new dawn approaches, a
dawn that calls out to me to once more bear witness to the
ever-changing tapestry of life and death. A task that calls for
the most skillful and empathetic pen to retell these stories.

And so, to you, my dear reader, I make a solemn

promise: As I continue on this eternal path, I shall return to
share with you the tales of a new era, tales etched with the
whispers of human souls, and written in the ink of both
triumph and defeat.

Let your heart’s anticipation soar, for I will soon glide

back into the shadows of the written word, where I shall
embark on yet another journey. A journey through a new
saga of love and despair, of heroes and villains, and stories
that will resonate throughout infinity.
 Fear not, dear ones, for I shall return in “Swinging the
Scythe: Book #2 of Reminisce: A Peek through Death’s
Diary.” As I wield this most formidable instrument, so shall
I wield my pen, unveiling a realm of hallowed narratives that
shall make your spirits tremble and your imagination soar.

Make ready your hearts and minds, for soon we shall

continue our odyssey into the depths of human spirit and
the limitless expanse of the universe beyond. Our journey is
far from over, and I invite you to embark on this voyage with
me—to traverse the perilous landscape of life and death,
united in our hunger for stories yet untold.

Until we meet again, my fellow travelers, let the echoes

of these tales linger within you, as we await our reunion in
the ethereal realm of words and tales, as I continue to gather
the strands of human existence, weaving them into Swinging
the Scythe.
 WATCH OUT FOR SWINGING THR SCYTHE: BOOK #2 OF
REMINISCE: A PEEK INTO DEATH'S DIARY.

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