The garden

The next "day"—if you could call it that, in a realm where time barely seemed to move—Max stood at the edge of the Garden, the unfamiliar weight of the Weaver's Shears hanging awkwardly at his side. 

The apprentice uniform fit perfectly, though he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or an insult. The black fabric was crisp, its dark tone only making him look paler, his silver-grey eyes standing out even more beneath the messy fringe of his hair.

He shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the collar. It wasn't as heavy as his usual cloak, but it still felt off. 

He squinted at the shimmering expanse before him, his lips pulling into a faint grimace. 

The Garden stretched endlessly, a patchwork of shifting landscapes that seemed alive with movement—trees melting into rivers, flowers blooming in reverse, and skies that shifted hues as though they couldn't settle on a mood. It was unnerving, like standing in the middle of a half-finished painting that kept correcting itself.

Max shifted his weight, his boots crunching softly against the grass. "Alright," he muttered, running a hand through his already messy hair. "It's just a soul. Not my first rodeo. How hard can it be?"

A subtle pull in the air told him where to go.

The first soul was waiting.

Max reluctantly followed the invisible tug, stepping into a new part of the Garden that shifted beneath his feet. The grass softened into a white marble floor, lined with towering silver columns that stretched impossibly high.

In the middle of it all, a man in his late eighties sat calmly on an elegant velvet chair, legs crossed, sipping tea.

Max stopped. Observing the rather strange being.

The man looked up and gave him a polite nod.

"Oh, good. Company," he said, setting his cup down on an equally elegant floating table. "I was wondering when someone would show up."

Max opened his mouth. Then closed it. Something about the old man threw him off.

The soul gestured to the chair across from him. "Would you like some tea?"

Max stared. "Um..." this was a rather unusual situation.

The man sighed dramatically. "Well, that's disappointing. I was hoping for some company."

He was completely white-haired. His beard was neatly trimmed, matching the sharp lines of his silver suit, pressed to perfection. He looked less like a ghost and more like someone who had stepped out of a high-end gala and mistakenly wandered into the afterlife.

Around them, white flowers began to bloom, twisting elegantly around the silver pillars. The sky above was a deep, endless blue, so rich in colour that it felt like staring straight into the ocean. 

What do I do now...? He thought.

Max cleared his throat. "Look, uh... sir. You died. That means...it's time to move on."

The man smiled pleasantly. "Oh, I know. Heart attack, wasn't it? Nasty business. Should have listened to my wife," said sipping his tea, "She did warn me."

Max narrowed his eyes. "You seem awfully calm about this."

"Well, I already lived long enough," The soul shrugged. "I just wanted to finish my tea before I go."

Max took out the Weaver's Shears, flipping them open with a practiced motion. The thread appeared, glowing softly around the man.

He expected some resistance—hesitation, a last-minute regret.

Instead, the man straightened his tie, lifted his chin, and nodded.

"Go ahead."

Max hesitated. His fingers twitched slightly around the Shears.

Snip.

The moment the blades closed, the man let out a soft sigh. His body began to fade, his form flickering like candlelight in the wind.

Before disappearing completely, he gave Max one last, knowing look.

"You're a bit rough around the edges, but you'll do fine here." he mused, with a gentle smile.

Then, he was gone.

Max stared at the empty space, fading away with the soul. The garden already shifting into something new. His expression somewhat lost.

The marble floor beneath his boots rippled like water, dissolving into soft grass. The air grew warmer, the sky shifting into a deep, dusky blue. Stars blinked into existence, dotting the vast stretch of the horizon.

The Garden had already prepared the next soul.

Max sighed, tilting his head back to stare at the sky for a brief moment.

This time, the pull led him toward a small pond, its surface unnaturally still.

A woman sat at the water's edge, her bare feet dipping into the pond. She was humming softly, a quiet, wistful tune. Her long red hair swayed gently, as if caught in a breeze that wasn't there.

Max slowed his steps, watching as the pond's surface flickered—not with reflections of the sky, but with fragments of memories. The pond reflected not the sky above, but fragments of her memories—some hazy, others vivid.

Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, their golden glow illuminating the field.

The woman turned her head slightly, her eyes finding Max with a warm, easy smile.

"Oh, hello there. Are you the one guiding me?"

Max tilted his head. "... Yeah."

"Lovely," she said, beaming. She turned back toward the water, watching the shifting memories dance beneath the surface. "I was just thinking about my childhood home. My mother had a pond just like this one. Isn't that funny?"

Max's expression flattened. "Not really," he muttered, flipping open the Shears. "It's time to go now."

The woman chuckled, her laughter soft and full of nostalgia.

"I suppose there's no point in stalling," she admitted, stretching her arms. "Go ahead."

Max stared at her for a moment longer. Her thread glowing around her thin figure.

Then—snip.

"I'm coming, my love..." she quietly whispered, disappearing into the air.

The garden shifted again. And again. And over and over again.

Countless souls, each appearing in their own versions of the Garden. Some smiled. Some sighed.

And through it all, Max moved mechanically.

Snip. Shift. Repeat.

At first, he was somewhat confused, but it soon started pissing him off. There's something definitely wrong with these people, he thought.

By the time the Garden shifted again, he was already gritting his teeth, muscles tense with barely restrained frustration.

He didn't care what kind of peaceful farewell this next one wanted. He'd had enough. He'd cut the thread, send them off, and be done with this whole ridiculous job. 

Grass gave way to a glittering mosaic of cobblestones, each one reflecting fragments of light. The air grew cooler, tinged with the scent of rain, and towering crystalline stalks rose around him like frozen trees.

Max stepped into a clearing, and there she was.

The woman was hunched on a stone bench in the middle of a clearing, her form flickering as if struggling to stay together.

At first, he didn't think much of it. Some souls took longer than others to process their deaths. He'd seen it before.

But then—the air around her warped.

The golden glow of the Garden dimmed, twisting into something heavier, darker. The soft, shifting leaves began to wither, curling at the edges. The trees surrounding them grew taller, their branches bending unnaturally inward.

The Garden was reacting to her.

Max narrowed his eyes. He sighed, his breath visible in the cool air. "Hey," he called, his voice low and gruff as he stepped closer. "You, uh, okay?"

The woman flinched, her form flickering violently. Around her, the crystalline stalks twisted, their surfaces cracking as shadows bled into their shimmering light.

"Alright, easy," Max said, raising his hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. "I'm not here to hurt you."

The woman didn't respond at first. Her head was bowed. Then, in a voice so soft it was barely audible, she whispered, "I can't leave her..."

Max frowned, taking another cautious step forward.

The translucent figure trembling. "My daughter," she said, her voice breaking. "She's so small. She doesn't understand. I can't leave her. She needs me."

Max hesitated. Something was wrong.

The woman was trembling, clutching her chest so tightly it looked like she was trying to hold herself together. A strange pressure filled the air, a tension he could feel crawling over his skin.

Max stopped a few paces away, shifting uncomfortably. He really, really didn't want to deal with this.

"Lady," he started, voice flat, tired, utterly done. "I get it, alright? But you can't stay here."

She shook her head violently, her breath coming out in quick, ragged gasps.

"Please," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Promise me—promise me you'll protect her."

Max gritted his teeth. "Yeah, I don't do promises," he said quickly, shaking his head, already flipping open the Shears.

"I'm just here to cut your—"

He stopped. A sharp cough into his hand, as if clearing his throat, frantically reorganizing his words,"Guide you on your way," he corrected, forcing a tight smile.

That was all this was supposed to be anyway.

Before she could say anything else, Max moved, Shears positioned toward the golden thread—done with this conversation.

Then—

The air cracked.

A sound like shattering glass echoed through the clearing. The woman let out a choked gasp as her form flickered violently, her golden glow stuttering like a dying flame.

Dark veins spiderwebbed across her translucent skin.

The warmth in the air was ripped away. The ground beneath her splintered, cracks spreading outward as if the Garden itself was rejecting her presence.

Max's stomach twisted. "Damn it!" He clenched his teeth.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

She was corrupting. Her body shook abruptly, her fingers digging deeper into her chest as if she were physically trying to stop herself from unravelling.

Her breathing turned shaky, uneven.

She was breaking.

"No—I can't leave yet—" Her voice warped, distorting along with her flickering form.

Max instinctively stepped back, Shears still open, mind racing.

"Hey," he snapped, trying to ground her. "Calm down, would ya?"

Her grief twisted, curling into something uglier, hungrier.

Her eyes darkened, flickering between human and something else entirely—the soft glow in them snuffed out, replaced by a hollow, inky blackness that seemed to swallow the light around her.

Her body convulsed, limbs jerking violently, like a marionette with its strings tangled. Her form warped, flickering chaotically between shapes—one moment human, the next a shifting blur of twisting shadows.

Like she couldn't remember what she was supposed to be any more.

And then, her lips parted—

A single word echoed, but it wasn't just a voice any more.

It was a demand.

"Promise—"

The air rippled with the weight of it.

The word stretched, split into itself, distorting into a thousand overlapping voices.

"Promise."

"Promise!"

"PROMISE!"

She lunged forward, hands outstretched—

Or at least, what should have been hands. Her fingers stretched too long, nails warping into curved, jagged tips, reaching for Max with clawed, breaking fingers—a half-formed thing caught between light and decay.

Max jerked away, just barely dodging. "Stop being dramatic, lady!"

His grip tightened around the Shears.

He had to act—now. If she fully corrupted, she would be gone forever.

But the soul grabbed him before he could react. Max's breath hitched. The pressure dug into his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs.

He gritted his teeth, struggling against her hold. "Oh, for Death's sake—"

She was too strong, even as she flickered between existence, her grip only tightened, crushing him like a vice.

Her twisted face loomed close, "Promise—"

Max's heart slammed against his ribs. The pressure was already blurring his eyesight, his hearing muted by the constant echos, he barely heard the words that came out of his mouth."F-fine!", he shouted, "I promise!".

The moment the words left his lips—

Everything stopped.

The air stilled, suffocatingly silent.

The tension snapped like a severed thread, her form froze mid-collapse, her flickering body slowly stabilizing, the corruption vanishing like it had never been there at all.

Then—

She let go.

Max was flung backward, hitting the ground with a bone-jarring thud as the force of her release sent him tumbling.

"Oof—ouch!"

He groaned, blinking dazedly at the swirling sky above, trying to process what the hell had just happened. His chest ached, and his body was numb. He slowly sat up, his vision still swimming, and his pulse pounding relentlessly in his ears.

His gaze snapped back to the clearing where she had been, struggling to focus.

She stood there, motionless. Her light faintly glowing, with a soft expression, almost peaceful.

She let out one final, shaky sigh, then smiled, as if nothing had happened.

And just like that, disappeared.

Max stared at the empty space for a moment, his mind still lagging behind reality, like a malfunctioning clock that had yet to catch up.

"... You bitc—" He groaned before collapsing backward into the flowers.

For a long moment, he didn't move.

He just lay there, arms sprawled out, his scowl directed at the sky.

The Garden continued shifting, indifferently.

Max's jaw twitched. His fingers flexed against the ground, muscles tensing as his thoughts finally snapped back into place.

Slowly, he dragged a tired hand over his face.

"Guess I messed up."

Max let out a slow, pained exhale.

Yeah. He definitely messed up.

By the time Max dragged himself back from the Garden, the strange twilight of the realm had deepened into a dusky haze. The Hall of Threads was still alive with movement—apprentices bustling in and out, their low chatter blending with the occasional shimmer of a passing thread.

Max ignored it all. His jacket was streaked with dirt, his boots scuffed from too much walking, and his patience had expired about two souls ago. He had one goal: head toward the humble little house he'd been assigned. A quiet, solitary space to finally let the day's nonsense fade.

At least, that was the plan.

Until a hand grabbed the back of his jacket and yanked him backward.

"Urg, let go, Rayner..." too tired to even struggle.

"Yikes," came Rayner's too-cheerful voice. "What happened to you?"

Max shot him a dead-eyed glare, making an effort to pry himself free. "If you don't let go in the next three seconds, I swear—"

"Relax," Rayner ignored the threat completely, slinging an arm over Max's shoulders before he could escape. "You look like a kicked skeleton. Don't tell me the great Max is tired already?"

Max grunted, barely resisting the urge to shove him off. "I just spent hours in that twisted, fever-dream of a Garden..." He exhaled, as if his soul had been left behind.

"Exactly! You need to unwind," Rayner grinned, steering him off course. "And what better way than with a little company?"

Max blinked. Wait. No. No, no, no.

He dug his heels into the grass, resisting like a cat being dragged into water. "No way! I am not hanging around those happy-go-lucky interns!"

But there was no escaping Rayner's persistence.

Within moments, Max found himself standing at the edge of a cosy campfire gathering, far from the quiet solitude he'd been aiming for.

The apprentices sat scattered around a flickering fire, their makeshift seats formed from twisting branches and old, uneven logs. The warm glow illuminated their faces, laughter bubbling between them as mugs of steaming, not-quite-tea were passed around.

Max surveyed the scene with the same enthusiasm as one might have for a mandatory team-building exercise.

"Go on," Rayner nudged him forward. "Find a spot!"

Max's scowl deepened. "Fine," he muttered.

But instead of actually sitting with the apprentices, his gaze landed on a gnarled tree just off to the side. Its branches twisted toward the sky, brittle and tired, as if even it had suffered through a long day.

Seems as worn out as I am, he thought.

Deciding that was as close to "joining" as he was willing to get, Max dropped himself onto the ground beneath the tree.

He sprawled lazily against its trunk, one leg stretched out, the other bent just enough to prop his elbow on. Taking up more space than necessary—purely out of principle.

Maybe if he sat still enough, they'd forget he was here.

Rayner, who had settled easily among the apprentices, shot Max an amused look but said nothing.

Max observed the apprentices gathered around the fire. The group seemed relaxed, swapping stories about their encounters in the Garden. His gaze drifted, his scowl deepening as the faint scent of something sweet wafted over, making his nose twitch.

"M-Max!". Aline's voice cut through the chatter, as bright and enthusiastic as ever. She was heading straight for him, with two steaming cups. Her uniform as kept as always.

"So... how was your first day?" she asked, crouching down in front of him and offering one of the cups.

Max eyed the tea with visible suspicion. "Fine," he muttered, leaning his head back against the trunk and letting out a low sigh. His tone suggested it had been anything but.

Undeterred, Aline handing out a cup. "Here," she said. "You'll want this. It helps with the... after-effects of the Garden."

Max glanced at the cup. The liquid inside was a murky golden colour, faint ripples dancing across its surface as though it were alive.

"After-effects?" he asked.

"Yes," Aline replied cheerfully. "It helps settle the soul after dealing with, well, souls."

With a resigned grunt, Max picked up the cup and took a cautious sip.

The taste hit him immediately. His face twisted into disgust. "What even is this taste?!" he said, staring at the strange liquid.

Aline giggled, settling onto a nearby branch, beside him. "You'll get used to it."

"Doubt it," Max muttered.

The apprentices' laughter rose and fell in waves, punctuated by the clink of cups. Max couldn't help but overhear their chatter.

"I had a musician today," one of them said, their tone laced with amusement. "The Garden was full of floating instruments. Took me ages to convince him to move on."

"Better than the one I had," Rayner chimed in, sipping his tea. "A poet. Wouldn't stop reciting their work. I swear I'll be haunted by rhyming couplets for the rest of my afterlife."

The group burst into laughter. Rayner, sociable as ever, seemed right at home among the apprentices, his easy charm blending seamlessly into their lively chatter.

"You guys are doing pretty well," Aline said, glancing around at the Reapers scattered across the field. She smiled warmly, her gaze settling on Max. "You did pretty well, Max."

Max blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. "Thanks..." he replied, his tone hesitant but not unkind.

"By the way," Aline continued, "You're kind of a big deal around here, you know. Everyone wanted to meet the so-called gray-eyed Reaper."

It's true that he noticed some apprentices observing him ever since he arrived, even there, some apprentices would look over in hopes he would join them. "But why...?", he slipped.

"Well...you are the oldest amongst us," she replied, glancing back at the group, "not everyone survives that long here." her voice slightly bitter.

Max observed her, her expression slightly distant. Not all apprentices died by the hand of corrupted souls, most of them just couldn't handle the pressure and would give up on their existence.

"You know, if you actually talked to them, you might find they're not so bad. They'd probably love it." gesturing toward the lively group. 

Max glanced at them, while Aline stood up, reaching for his cup. "Another refill?"

Max frowned in mock protest but handed her the cup anyway. "Sure," he said, feigning reluctance.

As she moved off toward the fire to refill his tea, Max let himself relax slightly. The cheerful chatter of the apprentices, accompanied by the soft crackle of the fire, was quite unsettling.

His gaze flickered toward the Weaver's Shears at his belt, their silver handles gleaming faintly in the firelight.

He picked them up, turning them over in his hands. Despite their delicate craftsmanship and otherworldly shimmer, they still felt wrong to him—too fragile. They weren't meant for someone like him, someone who had spent centuries wielding a scythe designed for sharp, brutal slaying.

But it wasn't the shears that weighed on him. Max exhaled slowly, his grip on the Shears tightening as the memory of the Garden resurfaced. The womans tormenting voice still echoed in his mind:

"Promise me you'll protect her..."

Her face flickering, hovered at the edges of his thoughts. I hope the old man doesn't find out about this...

He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, staring up at the endless sky. Somewhere out there, her thread was gone, unravelled into the fabric of the afterlife. But her daughter's thread remained, hidden among the infinite lattice of light that wove through the Hall of Threads.

Max didn't know which one it was, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. 

He stared into the flames of the campfire, the fire burned steadily, the apprentices' voices rising and falling like the rhythm of a song, while he sat quietly beneath the old tree, the Weaver's Shears resting in his lap, the knot in his chest still stubbornly refusing to untangle.