Epilogue Five Years Later
GRIM
There’s a fantasy—persistent and annoyingly well-marketed—that immortality makes you boring.
I’ve lived long enough to know the opposite is true: it simply makes you a more efficient curator of absurdities.
I walk through Blackthorn Bay’s main street on a morning so clean and sharp it nearly whistles, and the world parades its oddities for me on cue.
The children of Blackthorn Bay ride their scooters to elementary school in saturated coats, helmet lights blinking Morse code at each other in the blue air.
An elderly couple bickers in front of the bakery about the politics of scones.
A lilac bush, contrary to every published horticultural account, blooms from a crack in the sidewalk, and a pair of robins fights over its territory as though Global Ornithological Consensus is at stake.
These are the observations I catalogue. Five years ago, I would have walked this route unnoticed, a black shape behind the hedge of human preoccupations. Now, they see me.
“Good morning, Mr. Grim!”
It is the little Daprinski girl, hair in two jagged pigtails, shoes on the wrong feet.
Around here, I do not have the privilege of a real surname.
In Blackthorn Bay, first impressions ossify into local legend.
The mysterious undertaker. The giant in the dark coat.
Grim. Not “Mr. Grim,” not “Grimly,” not even “Grimoire.” Just Grim.
Apparently the name sounds friendly to children, like a helpful pet or a minor circus act.
“Morning,” I reply, forcing my mouth into a smile. The effect, based on past experiment, is equivalent to a thunderstorm threatening to clear but never quite managing it. She beams.
Past the library, which is now also a “community creative hub” (translation: a place where the elderly attempt to convert everyone to embroidery), I am flagged down by Mrs. Finch.
A legend in her own right, three generations deep in town gossip, purple coat year-round, scented with peppermint oil and conspiracy.
She calls out, “Grim, you absolute tower, do you have a moment? I need some brawn.”
She stands beside a planter that appears to have been engineered by the Army Corps of Engineers, its dirt compressed to bedrock, its petunias cowering beneath a layer of frost.
“Of course,” I say, stepping over cracks and root-knuckles, glancing at the angle she has calculated for leverage.
She wants the thing precisely thirty centimeters to the left, where it will catch the morning sun.
None of this surprises me. What still surprises me is the trust—that she beckons me over in broad daylight, in full view of her fellow townsfolk, with no more self-consciousness than if she were calling the butcher or the plumber.
I lift the planter with a single motion, and she tsks in theatrical amazement.
“Strongest man in town,” she says. “Might as well put you on the tourism website.”
I set the planter exactly where she wants it.
“You could charge admission,” I say, deadpan.
Mrs. Finch’s laugh is acerbic and honest, like the snap of hard candy.
“Don’t tempt me. You’d pack the place. Now come by for breakfast again, all right? I still have questions about the afterlife.”
“I’ll bring pastries,” I say, because this has become part of the arrangement.
She waves me on, satisfied, as though I am a particularly well-adjusted retriever.
I continue down the block. Several storefronts have painted their windows for spring.
Flowers, bumblebees, pink rabbits that appear to have been influenced by hallucinogens.
I admire the artwork for a moment before catching my own reflection: black coat (designer, not funereal), dark slacks, shirt collar open, boots polished.
My hair is longer now, dusted at the temples.
The people of Blackthorn Bay have domesticated me, or at least convinced me to look like someone they would willingly invite into their home.
When I was young—meaning the first five or six centuries—solitude was discipline, privacy armor.
If you are Death, you learn not to become too comfortable anywhere.
You learn not to answer questions. You learn to expect, at any moment, the lashing out of something primitive in the hearts of those who sense your presence before they can name it.
It occurs to me as I cross into the morning rush that I have not only become comfortable here.
I am known.
Belladonna Blooms comes into view at the end of the block.
The sign, painted in Lavinia’s hand, brims with brushstrokes and wild color: navy, gold, raspberry, green.
The windows are fogged with condensation and wreathed in climbing amaryllis, pansies, and something small and neon blue that I still cannot identify.
The sidewalk is an explosion of potted violets and petunias, buckets of daffodils and tulips arranged with the meticulous chaos of a Dutch flower auction.
Human voices mingle with birdsong and the steady clack of the cash register.
I duck through the door. The bell above it is no longer a skull-shaped novelty but a perfectly ordinary brass jingle, though I am convinced the sound could wake the dead.
The shop is crowded, as always. Atlas, clad in a saffron windbreaker, is attempting to gift-wrap a potted cactus for his wife and dance partner, Zelda.
Cassian stands in the sunniest spot just inside the window, arms crossed and eyes closed, so profoundly relaxed he might be meditating.
He is supposed to be on a stakeout, but he insists sitting among potted plants is cheaper than a tropical vacation.
But it is Lavinia’s voice that catches me—the true pulse of the shop.
“—and if you cut the stems at an angle, they last longer! Think of it like giving the flower a little straw so it can drink better.”
She giggles, and her laugh has only grown freer in the years since we met, lighter and richer, as though she is carrying around a private joke she finally feels safe enough to share with the world.
There is a ring light, of course, and a phone perched on a tripod, and a half-dozen bouquets arrayed on the counter. She is wearing a dress the color of apricots, her hair loose around her shoulders, her hands flying as she arranges stems and talks to an unseen audience.
I have a complicated relationship with phones and their cameras.
It is not strictly possible for me to appear in certain kinds of digital recordings, but over the years we have discovered that Lavinia’s phone simply refuses to malfunction.
It is one of the many mysteries I have elected to leave unexplored.
She senses me before she sees me, as always.
“Grim! There you are! Can you help me with a cameo?” she says, turning toward me and then, with impressive grace, back toward the phone. “Everyone, Grim’s here! You asked, and here he is. Death, but make it friendly.”
The chat window on Lavinia’s phone races by in an unreadable blur, an effusion of hearts, flowers, and questions far too fast even for me. She waves me over, and I step behind the counter, taking care not to catch the tripod with my boots.
“Say good morning to the internet, darling.”
I face the camera. I have absolutely no idea where to look.
“Good morning...internet.”
The chat erupts.
Lavinia beams.
“He’s gotten so much better at this,” she tells the audience before lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He doesn’t even groan anymore.”
“I have not groaned in a fiscal quarter,” I say.
She laughs, loading more flowers into a vase while keeping one eye on me and one on the phone.
“Okay, myth-busting time!” she proclaims. “Today’s episode is: Top Five Misconceptions About Death!”
There is a smattering of applause from the customers. Someone hisses, “Go, Lavinia!” from the back. The energy in the shop is ridiculous, as though we’re hosting a live cooking show aboard a cruise ship.
“First myth,” Lavinia says, reading from a notecard in her unmistakable handwriting. “Death is scary and only wears black capes. Grim, rebuttal?”
I pluck a stray carnation from a bin, tuck it behind my ear, and address the camera.
“I own two capes. They are reserved for formal occasions. Otherwise, I wear business casual.”
The chat explodes again. Several customers applaud.
“Second myth,” Lavinia continues, “Death doesn’t have a favorite flower.”
I glance sideways at her.
“Everyone has a favorite flower.”
She grins.
“Is it belladonna? You can say belladonna. The store is literally named after it.”
I shake my head.
“Classic bias. My favorite is morning glories.”
A sophomore from the community college, who has been pretending to browse for the last five minutes, gasps.
“Isn’t that kind of on the nose? They only last a day.”
I consider this.
“Yes.”
“The language of flowers,” Lavinia explains to the phone, “says morning glory means—and are you ready for this?—'love in vain.'”
She tilts her head toward me with the patience of someone who has learned not to push.
“Any comment?”
“I find them beautiful,” I say. “I always have.”
She smiles with all her teeth.
“I agree. They’re stunning.”
“Third myth: Death eats souls.”
I confess, on camera, “I have never eaten a soul. I don’t even eat shellfish.”
A ten-year-old in a soccer uniform pumps his fist.
“Ha! Knew it!”
Lavinia keeps the momentum going, reading questions aloud with the tongue-in-cheek pacing of a seasoned showwoman.
“Do dogs really see ghosts?”
“Yes,” I answer, because they do.
“Do you like cats?” someone asks in the chat, followed by four cat emojis.
“Much more than they like me,” I admit, which is true and also a little sad. Our cat, Marigold, has still not entirely warmed to me.
The shop erupts in laughter. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Atlas and Cassian holding up scorecards—a nine and an eleven.
Lavinia nearly doubles over laughing.
She spends the next several minutes reading questions from the chat, most of them affectionate, ridiculous, or some uniquely internet flavor of absurdity.
I answer every one with complete sincerity.
It has become something of a ritual, and from what I understand, it now occupies at least three hours of Lavinia’s week.
She is, somehow, a minor celebrity with millions of followers, a reality I accepted only after it directly resulted in our winning a year's supply of kumquats through an influencer sweepstakes.
The mood stays light until Lavinia slows, her thumb pausing against the screen. Her expression softens as she reads one comment silently before turning the phone toward me.
The message is simple.
Thank you for being with my grandmother when she passed. I wasn’t ready to let her go, but I hope she wasn’t alone.
The shop grows still.
For a moment, every living thing—the customers, the flowers, the staff, even the small white moth clinging to the windowsill—seems to hold its breath.
I remember her.
She loved crossword puzzles, chamomile tea, and humming old church hymns while she folded laundry.
“She wasn’t,” I say quietly.
Lavinia rests her hand over mine, her thumb tracing one slow circle across my skin. Then she closes the chat with a practiced flick, leans over, and kisses my cheek.
The moment is not for the audience.
Looking around the shop, I realize this is how they see me now—not as the shadow at the end of every story, but as a neighbor. A friend. Awkward, occasionally overdressed, probably in need of a hobby.
The bell jingles again.
A mother enters with her daughter. The little girl can't be older than seven. She wears a bright yellow raincoat despite the clear spring sky, her dark hair cut in a blunt pageboy, her front teeth still making the slow, determined journey toward adulthood.
She stops just inside the doorway and points directly at me.
“You're on my mom's phone.”
The accusation is absolute.
Her mother immediately starts apologizing, but Lavinia waves her off with an easy smile.
“Grim is famous now,” she says. “Do you want to say hello?”
The little girl nods solemnly.
I crouch, because I have learned there are rules for approaching small, suspicious creatures.
She studies me with the seriousness of a customs officer.
“Are you really Death?”
The shop quiets.
I can feel everyone's attention settle around us.
“Yes,” I answer. “I am.”
She thinks about that for several long seconds.
“Are you nice?”
Of all the questions I have answered over the centuries, this is somehow the hardest.
“I try to be,” I tell her honestly. “Sometimes I don't know how. But I try.”
She nods as though that makes perfect sense.
“My grandma said you helped her.”
“She asked me to sing,” I say. “So I did.”
That seems to satisfy her.
“She also said you were very tall.”
“I cannot help it.”
Her smile blooms slowly, then all at once.
She steps forward with her arms open.
I am not prepared for hugs. I suspect I never will be.
But I am learning.
I wrap my arms around her carefully, holding her just long enough before she lets go.
“Thank you,” she says.
She buys a single daffodil, pays with a fistful of coins, and leaves hand in hand with her mother.
For a long moment I simply watch them through the window, the yellow raincoat bobbing along the sidewalk like a bright spring blossom. Halfway down the block, they both turn to look back at the shop.
Lavinia joins me, her arms full of fresh tulips. She arranges them in the front window, somehow managing to rearrange me in the process.
“You handled that beautifully,” she says, quietly enough that only I can hear.
“She was very brave.”
“So were you.”
She rests her head against my shoulder.
For a long moment, there is only sunlight, the warmth of her beside me, and the endless green insistence of living things.
I think about that little girl walking home without fear, and about all the people who no longer see Death as a punishment or a monster waiting in the dark.
They see someone who simply walks beside them when the road comes to an end.
I think of Lavinia.
She made that possible.
“You changed the way they see me.”
She kisses my neck, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“No.”
She slips her hand into mine.
“I just helped them see who you've always been.”
For the first time in memory, I believe her.
THE END