I AM DEATH. SHIVER IN FEAR UPON MY GAZE, FOR I AM THE GRIM REAPER.

Oh, my Goodness, I’m sorry, I can’t pull that off. Just joking around a bit. As I always say, I am not grim, and I most definitely don’t reap people. I don’t even use the mandatory scythe; I have a bit of a phobia when it comes to pointy objects, and honestly, I believe it’s not the friendliest instrument for a fellow in my line of business. Souls get scared easily, you know? And I can’t blame them at all. Everyone would lose their marbles if the first thing they saw after dying were a shady bloke with an oversized, threatening gardening tool. But I digress. I tend to do that. I’m sorry, there’s so much to tell!

I am Ankou. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. I am the present Ankou, exactly the 777th of the Bloodline of Lazarus The Restless, and the one that has held the position for the longest so far. I’m a tad proud of that, if you must know. It makes me feel a little bit special within an endless list of unremarkable descendants.

So yes, Ankou leans more towards a job description than a proper name. To be honest, I don’t remember my name, nor my past human life for that matter. I can’t recall any of it. And not for lack of trying, trust me. It’s part of the job, you know? They say it’s easier to spend eternity alone if there are no strings attached.

Oh, but I digress again. My apologies. I’m still finding my pace in this strange monologue of mine. Bear with me, will you?

Well. I told you I am Ankou, the Spirit of Departure. I told you I have no memories of my human time. I told you about my aichmophobia.

But I didn’t tell you about G.

Gabrielle, Gabriel, G. My one, biggest, and best-kept secret.

If the authorities were to know about G, it would mean serious trouble. The kind of trouble that might put our lives in danger and even shake the very foundations of the delicate balance between the Three Realms humans know as Heaven, Purgatory, and Hell.

Maybe I should commence at the beginning. And it all starts, as you probably guessed by now, with G.

Looking back now, I’m sure my path started guiding me to them the second I decided to deviate from the usual fate of all Ankous. Despite the dignity of our sacred duty, our job is lonely, isolating, depressingly dull, and repetitive to no end, so pretty much all of us end up, well...mad. And once you spiral into insanity, Lord Aita, the God of Death, concedes you the kindness of retirement and graciously destroys you. I had been at the job for 200 years by then and was most certainly flirting with the usual expiration date.

So, I decided I was having none of it. There had to be something I could do to stay sane, to find a purpose, to be something more than a fancy soul-harvesting tool. I was an omnipresent, immortal entity in charge of a whole world full of creative humans that, for some reason, craved entertainment and came up with intricate means to get it. I could make use of it if I was careful enough, if I practiced enough.

But it was not the time to pick up macramé classes yet, no. The day was about to end. You see, on a regular day, about 150 thousand people die, give or take. It’s impossible for me to keep track of them all. This job is impersonal by nature, but I still felt somehow guilty. I mean, you must agree with me that it is slightly rude to burst into people’s most vulnerable moments and drag their souls away without even knowing their names. So, to atone for this, I developed a habit: I made a point to pay special attention to the last soul of every day.

I’d get there earlier, take a long, good look at the facial features of the person who was about to pass, and try to infer their personality traits from them. I’d check their surroundings for clues and even tried to guess their name. And when everything was over, I’d squeeze my numb brain to remember them for as long as I could.

I guess you know by now where this is going. That day, the very day I decided to defy my fate, G ended up being my last soul of the day.

As usual, I arrived a tad before schedule to acquaint myself with the environment. I still remember it clearly. It was a humble Irish cottage. Mostly empty, a feeble candle failing to warm up the cold room. It was a harsh winter and there was no food nor wood on sight. It was clear how the poor, shivering fellow curled up on the thin straw mattress would meet his last breath.

There was nothing much around to gather any information about his life, so I came closer to the mattress and clutched next to him to see his face.

Now, I’m a romantic. I suspect I’ve always been. I most heartily wish I could say I was stricken by the fated thunder of Destiny the very second I gazed upon G’s face, but alas, that didn’t happen.

I felt nothing but the same vague uneasiness I still feel today when I witness the last minutes of a dying soul. Gabriel (for G’s first round on Earth was in a male body) had stern features, a pained mask of sorts that was nothing unlike the many others surviving the harsh Irish winter those days without the aid of wealth. Reddish hair, skinny complexion, dirty, broken nails. And a pair of small feet lost to frostbite.

He breathed slowly, so very slowly. I got ready. I placed myself in the furthest corner, to give him a few seconds to get over the shock of death before showing myself.

He coughed.

He moaned and shivered violently.

And then he sighed his last breath.

His soul gently abandoned his tiny frame. And then he, for the first time, did something that G would never stop doing in the many centuries we’d share together.

He surprised me.