Prologue
The cloak never came off.
It wrapped around me like deafening silence, and it felt like death. I’d worn it so long, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt anything. I couldn’t remember how or when I had put on this cloak of responsibility. It shrouded me, head to toe, and I couldn’t feel a single ounce of emotion when it was on my skin. Some would argue that it could be a good thing; others would disagree. I would agree; perhaps it was a good thing, but the cloak never came off. It clung to me like skin. And I’d never once tried to take it off.
It was beneficial to wear the cloak void of emotion when doing the job I did. Ushering so many people to the afterlife every day would be hard on anyone who could feel emotions. We were Reapers, and we had to be unbiased and fair to all souls. It wasn’t for us to decide their fate. That job was for the others in the afterlife when the souls arrived. Redemption or suffering wasn’t ours to choose. That was down to the soul that had been reaped and the Guides.
I had accompanied thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of souls to their destination. I’d done it over and over and over again for so many years, and never once had I felt a thing.
Until now.
Until him.
He was right underneath me, asleep, my scythe laid gently on his bare chest while he slept soundly. His chest rose and fell in slow, undisturbed breaths. His golden blonde hair was swept in all directions from his slumber. I longed to know the colour of his eyes, to see them look back at me, to see me as no one else had. I wished for nothing more than his recognition.
And just like an act of God, his eyes opened, gold-flecked and too clear. I froze. For a moment, I feared he would look right through me. But he didn’t. He saw me. I smiled, a real, human smile. It felt wrong and unfamiliar, but I couldn’t help it.
Then, like a dagger, he spoke with a voice too musical to be real and said, “Who the fuck are you?”
