Page 13 of Death’s Gentle Hand

What followed was their first real conversation, halting and careful, full of questions neither fully answered.

Damian found himself defending the value of mortal existence to an entity that had witnessed civilizations rise and fall like waves.

Death, in turn, spoke of cosmic necessity with the weary tone of someone who'd never been allowed to choose their purpose.

The voice grew more distinct with each exchange, gaining texture and warmth that made it feel increasingly real, increasingly present in the small space of his clinic.

“You refuse to tell me your name,” Damian said after they’d talked nearly an hour.

“Names have power. Especially mine.”

“What if I promised not to use it against you?”

“You could not. But knowledge changes things. Once you know what I am called, I become myth—not mystery.”

Damian ran his fingers over the soft petals of a dying flower. “Maybe I like mystery better,” he said quietly. “A name’s just a word. Trust is what matters.”

Silence lingered—a softer, more hopeful kind of tension.

“Wise words from someone so young.”

“I'm not that young. Twenty-seven is practically ancient in Veil Row.”

“I have existed since before your species learned to count time. To me, you are barely more than an infant.”

Despite the cosmic implications of that statement, Damian found himself smiling. “And yet here you are, asking an infant to explain mortal philosophy to you.”

“Yes,” the voice said with what might have been wonder. “Here I am.”

Growing bolder with each exchange, Damian finally demanded: “If you're real, don't hide behind riddles and mystery. Show me what you are. Let me... let me touch you.”

The silence stretched for so long he thought the presence had left, offended by his boldness. Then, quietly, vulnerably: “It's been so long since anyone wanted to know me.”

Here was Death himself, admitting to loneliness, to the ache of being unwanted and feared.

The honesty cracked something open in Damian’s chest—a wall he’d built and forgotten, crumbling. He let himself sink into the chair, every muscle releasing tension he hadn’t known he carried.

“I’ve been hiding, too. From everyone. Maybe that’s why you found me. Maybe we’re both just… tired of being invisible.”

The air grew subtly warmer, and Damian felt the presence draw closer—no longer at the edges, but beside him, patient and watchful. For the first time in years, the silence was gentle. He wasn’t alone in the dark.

“You are not what I expected,” the voice said softly.

“What did you expect?”

“Fear. Bargaining. Desperation. The usual mortal responses to my presence.”

Damian laughed, surprising himself with the sound. “I stopped being afraid of death a long time ago. Hard to fear the inevitable.”

“Yet you fight it. Every night, with every patient you heal.”

“I don't fight death. I fight unnecessary suffering. There's a difference.”

“Explain.”

Damian thought for a moment, running his thumb along the smooth edge of his desk while he chose his words carefully.

“Mrs. Kess was dying. Her body was consuming itself, her time-debt had finally caught up with her.

I couldn't save her life—that wasn't the point.

But I could make sure she didn't die in agony. I could give her enough peace to say goodbye properly.”

“You eased her transition.”

“Exactly. Death is natural, inevitable. But it doesn't have to be cruel.”

The voice was quiet for a long moment. When it spoke again, there was something like gratitude in its tone: “No one has ever described my purpose as potentially kind before.”

“Maybe that's because no one's ever taken the time to really talk to you about it.”

As the evening deepened into full darkness, Damian performed a ritual he'd never attempted before. He lit a single white candle and placed it on his windowsill, speaking to the darkness with deliberate intention: “If you want to talk again, come back when this burns low. I'll be waiting.”

The offer felt both bold and terrifying, an invitation to something that could change his life irrevocably. But loneliness was a heavier burden than fear, and the prospect of genuine companionship outweighed the risks.

After a long pause, the voice responded with something that might be gratitude: “I don't need the flame to find you. But I appreciate the gesture. I'll come for the silence you offer—it's been centuries since anyone shared their quiet with me willingly.”

The words carried a loneliness so profound it made Damian's own isolation seem small by comparison. Here was someone who had existed for eons without companionship, without understanding, without anyone who found value in his presence beyond necessity.

“How long have you been alone?” Damian asked gently.

“Always. My kind were never meant for connection. We serve cosmic function, nothing more.”

“That sounds like hell.”

“I thought it was simply existence. Until I began observing you, I had no concept of alternative ways of being.”

Damian carefully adjusted the candle's position, his fingers gentle on the warm wax. As he settled back into his chair, he felt the presence join him properly—not visible, but undeniably there, like a companion who didn't need to breathe.

The air grew warmer despite the night's chill, and he could sense attention focused on him with patient intensity. For the first time in years, his clinic felt truly inhabited.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Damian said into the comfortable silence.

“You may ask.”

“Do you enjoy what you do? Not the cosmic duty part, but the actual work. Helping souls transition, ending their pain?”

The silence stretched so long Damian wondered if he’d offended his guest. When the answer came, it was hesitant. “I thought I found satisfaction in duty. Fulfilling my function. But watching you… it makes me wonder if I’ve only ever known obligation, not fulfillment.”

Damian considered this, feeling a kinship in the struggle. “Sometimes it’s easier to do what you must, instead of what you want. But that doesn’t make it enough.”

“You could choose selfishness, and you don’t,” he replied, his voice almost soft. “I am learning there is more to purpose than law.”

In the comfortable silence that followed, Damian asked the question that had been haunting him since their first exchange: “Are you here to kill me? Is that what this is?”

The response came without hesitation, tinged with something that might be surprise: “No. You keep pulling me back from what I'm supposed to do. You're changing everything I thought I knew about my purpose.”

“How am I changing anything? I'm just a street healer.”

“You are someone who chooses compassion over self-preservation. Who finds value in easing suffering rather than simply ending it. Who speaks to the dead with love rather than fear.” The voice paused, then continued with something like wonder: “You are teaching me that there are other ways to serve, other ways to exist.”

They sat together in the candlelit room as night settled fully over Varos, not speaking but sharing space in a way that felt profoundly intimate.

Outside, the city continued its nightly symphony of suffering and hope—time-debt collectors making their rounds with heavy footsteps and harsh voices, children crying with hunger that carried on the night air, lovers whispering promises they might not live to keep.

But inside his clinic, Damian had found something rarer than healing magic: true companionship with someone who understood the weight of carrying others' burdens.

“I have a confession,” he said as the candle burned lower, wax pooling on the windowsill with soft dripping sounds.

“Tell me.”

“I'm not as altruistic as you think. I don't heal people just because it's right. I do it because... because their pain is easier to bear than my own. When I'm absorbing their suffering, I don't have to think about my own losses, my own failures. It's selfish, in a way.”

“You transform your pain into purpose. That is not selfish—that is alchemy of the highest order.”

The gentle judgment in those words made Damian's throat tighten with emotion. When was the last time someone had understood his motivations so clearly and still found them worthy of respect?

“What about you?” he asked. “Do you have pain you're trying to escape?”

“I thought I did not. Pain seemed to be a mortal condition, something I observed but did not experience. But speaking with you tonight has awakened something in my chest that aches in ways I cannot name.”

“That might be loneliness. Or hope. Sometimes they feel the same.”

“Hope,” the voice repeated, as if testing the weight of the word. “I am not certain I understand that concept.”

“Hope is choosing to believe that things can be better than they are. Even when you can't imagine how.”

“And you have hope?”

Damian smiled into the darkness, feeling warmth spread through his chest. “More than I've had in years. Talking to you, sharing this space with you—it feels like the beginning of something good.”

As the candle burned down to a stub, casting its final weak warmth across the clinic, Damian spoke one final truth into the darkness: “Whatever you are, wherever you come from—thank you for hearing me. I forgot what it felt like to be found.”

The presence answered not with words but with warmth—a quiet embrace wrapping Damian, gentle and certain.

For the first time in decades, he felt protected, allowed to rest. Sleep stole over him softly, dreams full of gentle voices and silver light.

The white candle guttered out, but the peace lingered.

He woke with hope blooming in his chest—real, living hope. His hand found the journal, found new words inked in that same elegant hand: Thank you for the silence, Damian Vale. I will return to share it again.

Damian traced the message, heart thrumming with wonder. He closed the journal with care, holding the impossible close. The slow-burn ache of not being alone settled into his bones, sweet and terrifying and just beginning.