Arrival of the Death Angel.
(The world zooms in, showing multiple death scenes as William’s voice echoes in the background.)
There is a belief in the human world: when a person dies, their brain remains active for about seven minutes. In those fleeting moments, the most beautiful memories of their life flash before their eyes.
I am William — though most know me as a fallen being. The Angel of Death. But I believe I am Death itself.
Right now, I am being punished. I must take the souls of the dying until I find the one who can break the chains that bind me, keeping me from the divine realm.
A death angel’s duty is to guide souls from the earth and send them to either heaven or hell. But because of the curse cast upon me — by her — my punishment is far crueler.
During those final seven minutes, as a person’s memories play before their death, I must enter their minds… and relive their memories as if they were my own.
(William’s Perspective)
Death was a doorway, and William had learned to walk through it as though it were a second skin. Today, he entered the memories of a man who had just breathed his last. A single father. Ordinary, yet extraordinary in the simplicity of his love.
The man’s happiest moments unfolded like a faded film reel: the day he married his wife, the birth of his son, quiet afternoons tossing a ball in the yard, picking him up from school, and weekends at the construction site where his ten-year-old eagerly lent a hand, proud to help his father.
William lingered on a memory that burned brighter than the rest. Kneeling beside his wife on her deathbed, the man had whispered a promise to never leave their son’s side. Not a joyous memory, but sacred. A moment of unwavering devotion.
And then the light dimmed. The images dissipated, and William stepped out of the man’s mind, his chest tightening as he faced the soul. It floated there, confused, blank, unsure.
A tear slid down his cheek. He wiped it away, brushing it off with a finger.
“Come. Let’s go,” he said, voice low but firm, carrying the weight of countless deaths.
(Holly at the Doctor)
Elsewhere, Holly sat in the sterile calm of a doctor’s office. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers intertwined, knuckles pale beneath her skin. She was young, strong, self-contained—but beneath the surface, tension coiled like a snake.
The doctor entered, carrying a folder. “Good morning, Holly.”
She inclined her head slightly. No words.
“Do you have anyone with you?”
“No,” she said bluntly. “You can tell me. I’ll be fine.”
He studied her. Holly had always been like this: composed, unflinching, a steel rod in human form.
“It’s small cell lung cancer,” he said.
Her eyes widened ever so slightly, but her face betrayed nothing. “Cancer?”
He nodded. “There’s nothing we can do. With treatment, survival is rarely beyond a year.”
“And without treatment?”
“It takes a few months. It spreads rapidly before symptoms even appear.”
She nodded slowly, expression unreadable. A smirk brushed her lips, faint but deliberate.
“I recommend you start treatment immediately.”
“I’ll let you know my plans,” she said as she rose, voice steady. She left the office, each step measured, as if she were already planning her escape from a sentence written before she even entered the room.
(Confrontation with Jim)
The car stopped in front of her boyfriend’s house. She didn’t call. She didn’t warn. She pressed the doorbell.
Jim opened the door, shirtless and panicked. “Holly? What are you doing here?”
Her gaze was sharp, unwavering. “Do I have to wait here, or can I come in?”
He stepped aside, hands raised. “Sit on the couch.”
“I forgot my purse last time,” she said, voice calm, measured. “I wanted to pick it up… and talk.”
“I’ll get it for you. Do you want some water?” he asked, uneasy.
Before he could react, Holly’s eyes caught movement. She strode to the bedroom. There—a half-naked woman froze under her gaze. Jim grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t—don’t believe what you’re seeing. This was just—”
“Hand me my purse. I’m leaving. And don’t ever come looking for me again,” she said, sharp and cold.
Rolling his eyes, he muttered, “You’re overreacting.”
“Yes. Now bring me my purse,” she replied.
He retrieved it. She snatched it and turned to leave. Then, in a flash of controlled fury, she seized the glass of water he held and flung it across his face. He screamed, stunned, but she didn’t glance back.
(Holly in the Rain)
The car moved again, rain drumming against the roof, wind whipping through the windows. Holly told the driver to stop. He obeyed without question.
She stepped into the downpour, tossing aside the umbrella.
“Stay here,” she commanded.
She walked. And walked. The rain soaked her through, cold seeping into her bones, but she did not stop. Her mind replayed every injustice, every heartbreak, every betrayal.
Hours—or maybe minutes later—she reached the church. She stepped inside, water dripping onto the worn stone floor. She fell to her knees before the statue of Jesus, arms trembling, tears carving clean trails down her cheeks.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she cried, voice raw. “All I asked for was someone who loves me, someone who could care for me like an adult. Instead, you sent people who are selfish, who hurt me. You took my parents. My family. My friends. All I have now is money… and a few months of life. Why do people call you an angel? They’re wrong. You’re a devil. You enjoy watching people suffer!”
She collapsed, sobs wracking her body.
And then the wind came. Fierce, howling, scattering dust and debris like ghosts. Through the chaos, a figure appeared. Tall. Imposing. Handsome. A three-piece suit clung to a frame of calculated perfection, one hand tucked in his pocket. His presence dominated the church.
Holly’s vision blurred. Fear, awe, and something deeper churned in her chest as he approached
, silent, unstoppable.
And for the first time, she felt the weight of what was coming.
End of Chapter One
