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twenty-two

Astoria

T he museum was quieter than usual today, the light dimmed by the overcast sky outside.

For once, there were no hurried footsteps, no tourists crowding the halls, no reminders of how out of place I felt.

The air was filled with the soft murmur of hushed voices, the clink of a distant coffee cup, and the muted echo of footsteps across polished floors.

I wandered through the galleries, pausing here and there to admire the stillness. There was something comforting about the quiet. The constant moving, the transient nature of my existence, always left me searching for something to root me. But I hadn’t been able to settle anywhere in years.

Instead, I observed.

Couples, young and old, strolled arm in arm through the museum, their shared smiles lighting up the dim rooms. Lovers, caught in the rapture of an easy connection.

My heart ached for the fleeting beauty of it, the simplicity of what I’d never have.

How long had it been since I’d shared that kind of joy with anyone?

But I found myself watching families the most.

Parents with young children, arms full as they explored the artwork. Small hands clutched tightly to their mothers, a sense of wonder in their eyes. I wished to go back to those days.

Turning toward the back of the museum, the Gates of Hell loomed in all their grotesque beauty.

The twisted forms, the pain and anguish carved in stone, always left me breathless.

A small part of me hoped that, perhaps, this visit would finally give me some semblance of peace.

Some time to just be , without the constant reminder of what I was: a walking curse.

Until I saw him.

Sitting on a bench, his long legs stretched out before him, was Death. The last person I wanted to see, in the place I’d come to find some fleeting solace.

His cold eyes met mine, and that familiar, wretched chill rushed over me, the same shiver that seemed to settle into my bones every time I encountered him. He was looking at me with the same unreadable expression he always wore, his posture relaxed, like he had all the time in the world— my time.

I didn’t want to let him have the satisfaction, but despite the steel I’d built around myself, my chest tightened. It was hard to escape the truth of him, the truth of everything he symbolized in my life.

“To what do I owe the honor?” I muttered with contempt. His gaze remained locked on the figures in Rodin's Gates of Hell . They were reaching for one another in a way that made something deep inside me stir, the reminder of everything I could never have.

A crease formed in his brow, as if the tragedy of the sculpture bothered him too. “You know I have no control over you…” His words dripped with something eerily close to sincerity.

That gave me pause. I hesitated, chewing on my lip, before remembering I’d worn red lipstick and the chalky taste now lingered on the edge of my tongue like a taunt. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

Grim turned his head, slowly. His eyes were dark, not just in color but in a way that made my stomach flip. There was a glint there—was it amusement? Something darker? He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his dark sweater bunching. He ran his thumb over his lip, savoring the moment.

“It means a great deal,” he said, his voice rough around the edges. The kind of gravely tone that broke and felt dangerously close to a caress.

Reaching for my purse, I attempted to keep my hands busy, not wanting him to see how his words were making my pulse pick up. I pulled out the worn journal I’d been keeping lately, the edges of the leather cracked from age, the pages filled with the scribbles of a life I couldn’t quite contain.

“Sorry that my curse is so difficult for you,” I said, with faux-sympathy. “I’ll take that up with whoever it was that designed this personal level of hell.”

Grim’s lips twitched. He knew the words were just a shield—I hid behind humor when everything in me wanted to scream.

“I appreciate it.” He leaned closer. “You’ve really tortured me, you know.”

His hand landed on my tights-clad thigh. A simple movement, but my breath caught. The pressure of his fingers was a brand, marking my skin. He didn’t have to say anything for me to feel the weight of the gesture.

Ever since I had adopted my jeans-and-Converse uniform, I’d been hard-pressed to wear much else. But today was my 134th birthday, and I was in France. The occasion called for something different. Something just for me.

A dress. Black and fitted and flattering.

“I can’t see anything surrounding your curse,” he said, squeezing my leg.

My stomach rioted in nerves, and something else I couldn’t name.

“I can’t do anything about it. It’s infuriating, and it consumes me. I want to be rid of you.”

The words stung more than I cared to admit.

His gaze was sharp, searching my face as though trying to carve something out of me.

He let out a frustrated sigh. “In the perfect lay of the world I have, you’re this incessantly annoying wrinkle I can’t seem to smooth out.

For all the times I’ve tried to erase you from existence. .. you just won’t budge.”

My breath caught in my throat. “You’ve tried to kill me?”

“Duh,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Well, I’ve tried, too. And spoiler alert, it never works.”

Grim’s expression shifted and his usually cool demeanor cracked just slightly, the shadows surrounding him flaring around us. “You think that’s funny?” His voice dropped, quieter now, more dangerous.

“No,” I laughed. “But it’s just... kind of pathetic, don’t you think? You and I, stuck in this endless game.”

His jaw tightened, and for a brief moment, I almost thought he was going to say something else, until the words died in his throat. Instead, he let the silence stretch on, and I realized the truth of his frustration was just as raw as my own.

Squeezing my thigh, the scalding touch disappeared with his hand as he moved to pull something from the pocket of his slacks. A glint of silver flashed between us before he reached for my hand once more, his fingers cool against my skin as he gently opened my palm.

“A memento mori.” He dropped the necklace into my hand, the weight of it unnervingly heavy.

It wasn’t just jewelry, it was his reminder. A sharp and biting one.

The cold metal settled against my skin as I examined it. A simple silver chain, but the charm... I could feel the taunting weight of it. An hourglass, etched with delicate florals, the sand almost run out.

I stared at it, my heart twisting. “You’re vile,” I said, the words slipping from my mouth with a venom I could taste. If only I could actually choke on it. I wanted him to understand how much I truly loathed him, how every inch of my being hated the very space he took up.

Death smiled, relishing in my discomfort as I recoiled from him.

“For your birthday, Tempest,” he purred, with a mocking look.

I squeezed the charm tightly in my palm, the floral filigree biting into my skin. “What is it you want from me, really?” I fixed my gaze on the necklace, as if it could explain the twisted dance between us.

Grim's eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous behind them. “It’s not what I want. It’s what you need.”

My death.

“More or less,” he muttered, running a hand through his tousled hair.

Did he think I chose this? Did he think, if given the choice, I would choose this curse? To watch as my family aged and died without me, to stand still while time passed me by, a cruel reminder that I was a forgotten soul?

But then again, I wouldn’t have been able to save so many lives. It was both a blessing and a curse.

“If you had the power to save someone, to give them another chance, wouldn’t you do it?”

“I already have. Yet, the price remains the same,” he said with a haunted look in his eye.

Rodin’s sculpture loomed before us, searing in its emotional intensity. Its impression burned into my mind, carving its place in my thoughts. I ran my thumb over the smooth engraving of the hourglass, the sand slipping away at a cruel, and steady pace.

“If life’s so important, why are we all just running to the end of it?” My thoughts were a bitter observation of life's futile cycle.

“Perhaps there’s no point,” he replied. “Have you ever thought of that? You’re born. You live. You die. It’s the natural cycle humans have repeated for thousands of years.”

That truth was hollow and sharp. Humans fought over the meaning of life, waged wars under the guise of justice, and clung to religions that promised both beginnings and endings.

We justified cruelty for the sake of an afterlife no one could prove, terrified of death’s finality.

Everything we did—our wars, our beliefs, our search for redemption—was driven by our fear of the end.

Grim cleared his throat, his eyes focused on Rodin’s depiction of Paolo and Francesca.

Paolo, reaching desperately for his lover, their connection slipping just beyond grasp.

“Perhaps it’s what you make of it,” he said, turning to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“The connections and the time shared, however fleeting it may be. You seek solace in the idea of something beyond me , hoping it gives purpose to the suffering you endure. A comforting lie wrapped in hope, keeping humans from facing the terrifying truth: that I might truly be the end, and all you are left with is what you made of the time you were given.”

My fingers tightened around the memento mori in my palm. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, casting shimmering beams over Rodin’s “Divine Comedy.” Outside, the world seemed impossibly beautiful, the sharp chill of November in France somehow softened by the warmth of the light.

“But what would I know? I’m only Death,” Grim added, interrupting my thoughts, his voice turning cold. “Happy Birthday, Astoria. For the sake of your heart, and mine, I hope it’s your last.”

And then, with the finality of his words, he disappeared—his presence vanishing as quickly as his cruel parting words, leaving nothing but a void of silence and his absence hanging heavy in the air.