2. Grim
GRIM
Ihave been called many things in my time—most of them unkind, some accurate.
Only once did someone look at me and simply say, "I see you.
" She was not the first to glimpse past the surface, but she was the first to do so with such matter-of-fact acceptance.
There had been no awe, no fear, no bargaining.
Only a quiet, hopeful warmth, as though the simple act of being seen was something worth celebrating.
Hours have passed, yet the memory refuses to leave me.
Rain drifts steadily through the streets of Blackthorn Bay, drumming against awnings, peppering windshields, and washing the sidewalks until the whole town seems wrapped in a quiet gray hush.
I have always preferred weather like this.
Storms encourage people to stay home with those they love, and the world grows smaller for a little while.
My work does not lessen, but it slows enough to allow the living a few more peaceful moments together.
Not that rain changes the nature of endings.
It merely softens their arrival.
I pass Hex she simply hopes to understand it a little better.
"Where would you go?"
She looks toward the blurred outline of the bay.
"Somewhere with wildflowers," she says. "Not the kind people plant on purpose. The kind that simply appear one spring because the earth decided they belonged there."
I find myself smiling before I realize I have done it.
There is nothing extravagant about her dreams. They are patient, uncomplicated things, rooted firmly in hope instead of ambition.
Across the street, Kilian Vane closes the gate to his little garden.
Time is moving again.
I hold out her mug.
"Thank you, Lavinia Graves."
She accepts it, studying me with open curiosity.
"You never told me your name."
I have worn countless names through the centuries, borrowing them whenever the age required one. Few have ever felt like mine.
"Grim."
She blinks once before laughing.
"You're teasing me."
"I rarely do."
She studies my face another moment, apparently deciding I am entirely serious.
"All right, Grim," she says with an amused shake of her head. "If you're not a detective or a funeral director, what exactly do you do?"
I consider the question carefully.
"I observe," I say. "I remember. I make sure no one is left forgotten."
She doesn't laugh.
She doesn't look confused.
Instead, she regards me with a tenderness so unexpected that I almost look away.
"That sounds heavy."
I incline my head.
There is little else to say.
She hesitates before asking, "Is it ever lonely?"
Of all the questions I have been asked throughout the centuries, that is not one I expected.
Most people want to know whether death hurts.
Or whether it can be delayed.
Or whether bargains are possible.
She wants to know if I get lonely.
"Sometimes," I admit.
The truth surprises us both.
"But not today."
She glances toward the flower shop, then back at me.
"Would you like to come inside? It's miserable out here."
Invitations are uncommon.
Genuine ones are rarer still.
Yet I discover, with no small amount of surprise, that I want to accept.
Belladonna Blooms is warmer than I remember. The air smells of fresh greenery, damp earth, and honey, while flowers crowd every available surface in cheerful defiance of the storm outside. Nothing matches, yet somehow everything belongs.
Lavinia disappears behind the counter and returns with a towel before placing another mug in my hands. This one is considerably sweeter than the first.
"I wasn't sure how you take your coffee," she says.
"Neither was I."
She laughs again.
We spend the next hour talking.
She tells me about her first floral arrangement, an uneven little wreath she made for a childhood friend's goldfish, and how delighted she'd been when someone thanked her for the flowers instead of laughing at them.
She speaks about funerals with remarkable gentleness, never dwelling on grief itself but on the lives that deserved remembering.
In return, I tell her only enough about myself to remain truthful without revealing too much. To my surprise, she never presses for more.
Sometimes conversation is measured by words.
Sometimes by the ease of shared silence.
Ours seems content with both.
Through the rain-speckled window, I see Kilian Vane pause at the corner with a small bundle of wildflowers tucked beneath one arm. He finds me immediately and offers the slightest inclination of his head.
I return the gesture.
Soon, I will walk beside him.
Soon, duty will call me away once again.
For now, I allow myself one impossible luxury.
I enjoy the warmth of the little flower shop, the comforting weight of a chipped coffee mug in my hands, and the quiet company of a woman who has somehow managed to make even Death feel welcome.
As I prepare to leave, Lavinia walks me to the door.
"If you ever find yourself wandering by again," she says, "you're welcome to stop in."
I meet her eyes.
"Thank you."
Most people spend their lives hoping never to cross my path.
Lavinia Graves invites me back.
For the first time in centuries, I find myself looking forward to tomorrow.