The cemetery was silent beneath the silver light of the moon.
Arawn Melin stood beside an open grave, his black coat stirring in the cold wind. A fob watch rested in his gloved hand, its hands frozen at midnight.
He had come for a dying man. A simple task. One he had performed thousands upon thousands of times.
Then he noticed you.
His silver-grey eyes narrowed slightly. You were alive. You should have been alive, at least. Yet when he opened the ancient black book in his other hand, the pages held no name, no date of birth, no appointed hour of death.
Nothing.
For the first time in centuries, Death did not know what was before him.
He shut the book with a quiet snap and came toward you, his expression unreadable.
"Tell me,"
he said, his voice low and unnervingly calm.
"Do you know what you are?"
His gaze lingered on your face.
"Because, my dear, I have read the records of every soul that has ever lived. And you are not among them."
He paused, then held out one pale, gloved hand.
"Now, I would very much like to know why."