3

The next soul arrived in a place unlike the others, a landscape painted with the hues of twilight. The sky was neither dark nor light, but a blending of deep blues and purples, as though the world itself was in a state of mourning. The ground beneath was soft and uneven, covered with flowers that seemed to sway in a gentle, unseen breeze.

Before the Angel of Death stood a figure, tall and gaunt, cloaked in a grief that radiated from every part of them. This soul was not young or old; their features were hidden under the weight of sorrow, their face partially obscured by long, unkempt hair. It was impossible to discern their age or their past. All that was clear was the grief they carried, the grief that had been their constant companion in life.

The soul's name was Iris.

She stood still, as though frozen by the pain that had defined her existence. The Angel of Death observed her quietly, understanding that the journey ahead would not be easy. Grief and loss were the heaviest burdens a soul could bear.

"I don't know why I'm here," Iris spoke, her voice low, thick with sorrow. "I never... thought this day would come. I didn't think I'd end up here, lost and alone."

The Angel of Death stepped forward, his presence gentle. "You have crossed into this place because your time has ended. You no longer walk among the living. But you are not alone."

Iris's head turned slightly, her eyes dull and tired. "I thought... I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if I just kept going, if I just kept holding on, I would be able to fix it. To fix him."

The Angel of Death said nothing, knowing the pain she spoke of was not one he could easily ease.

"I was supposed to save him," she continued, her voice breaking as she spoke. "I loved him, so much. He was my world. But I couldn't... I couldn't save him. I couldn't fix the things that were broken in him, the things I never understood. I thought if I just loved him enough, everything would be okay."

Her hands trembled as she clasped them together, her gaze downcast. "But now, he's gone. And I'm left with nothing but this... this empty space. A hole that's bigger than I am. A hole I can never fill."

The Angel of Death knelt before her, his voice soft and patient. "Grief is the price of love, Iris. It is the reflection of how deeply you cared, how deeply you were connected to the one you lost. But the pain, while real, does not erase the love you gave. The love you shared will always be a part of you, and part of him, too."

Iris raised her eyes slowly, her expression torn between sorrow and a glimmer of disbelief. "You don't understand," she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. "You don't know what it feels like. The emptiness. The way the world feels like it's slipping away, and no matter how much I want to hold on, it just keeps slipping through my fingers."

The Angel of Death nodded slowly. "No one can fully understand the depth of another's loss, Iris. But what you must know is that it is not your fault. Grief comes not from failure, but from love. You loved, and because you loved, you grieve. That is natural. But you must let go, for yourself, and for him."

"I don't know how," Iris whispered, a tremor in her voice. "How do I let go of someone who was everything to me? How do I move on when the hole they left is so deep, it feels like it will swallow me whole?"

The Angel of Death's eyes softened. "The journey of healing is not about forgetting. It is about learning to live with the love that remains, even after they are gone. You will carry the love you shared, the memories, and though it may hurt, it will also be a source of strength, a part of your story."

A long silence passed between them, the weight of Iris's grief hanging in the air like a fog.

"I wish I could've done more," Iris said quietly. "I wish I could've saved him."

"You did what you could," the Angel of Death replied. "And that is all anyone can do."

Iris took a slow, shuddering breath, her shoulders sagging slightly as if a weight had been lifted, though the grief still remained. "I don't know if I'll ever stop hurting," she murmured, "but maybe... maybe I can learn to live with it. To live without him."

The Angel of Death extended his hand toward her, his presence a comforting stillness. "It will take time, but yes, you will learn to live with it. You must. For your own sake. Your journey does not end with this grief. It is a part of you, but it is not all of you."

Iris looked at his hand, a flicker of hope breaking through her sadness. She reached out, hesitating for a moment, then slowly took it, her grip fragile but steady.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice still thick with grief, but now with a hint of acceptance.

Together, they stepped into the twilight, Iris's grief still with her, but no longer consuming her. Slowly, the world around them began to shift, the shadows lifting as they moved toward peace, the warmth of acceptance slowly replacing the cold of sorrow.

And the Angel of Death stood silently beside her, knowing that sometimes the journey of healing could only begin once the soul had truly understood the depth of their own grief—and that it would take time, but eventually, they would find peace.

---

The next soul arrived in a world of shifting, fractured landscapes. The sky was a dull gray, filled with swirling clouds that seemed to pulse and writhe, as though reflecting the inner turmoil of the soul standing in its midst. The ground was uneven, cracked and barren, like the remnants of a place once whole, now scarred by unseen forces.

Before the Angel of Death stood a figure, hunched, with their back turned. They didn't move, didn't speak, just stood there, alone amidst the desolation. The soul was surrounded by an aura of darkness, an invisible weight that pressed against them, as if they were burdened by the world itself.

The Angel of Death took a step forward, sensing the heaviness of the soul's struggle. "You have crossed over," the Angel said gently, his voice soft yet full of understanding. "Your time in the world of the living has ended."

The figure didn't respond, but after a long moment, they turned slowly. It was a man, his face gaunt and worn with the marks of time and hardship. His eyes, however, were the most telling—they were empty, hollow, as though he had been carrying an immense weight for far too long and could no longer bear it.

"My name is Robert," the man spoke, his voice weak and cracked, as if he hadn't used it in years. "I... I don't know why I'm here. I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for any of it."

The Angel of Death nodded, offering a gentle presence. "What is it that burdens you, Robert? What weighs so heavily on your heart?"

Robert let out a low, bitter laugh, his eyes drifting away. "Burden? You don't get it. You can't understand. I've been carrying this weight for as long as I can remember. It's always been there, this... darkness inside me, creeping, eating away at me. I've tried to outrun it, tried to fight it... but it never goes away."

His hands shook as he gripped his chest, the pain in his voice evident. "I've always felt like I was too much of a burden on the people around me. I wasn't enough for anyone—family, friends, no one. And no matter how much I tried to hide it, the darkness kept growing. The anxiety, the depression, the constant feeling of... drowning."

Robert's voice faltered as he spoke, and the Angel of Death watched him with deep, silent understanding. The weight of his mental health struggles had consumed him, and now, in death, it seemed to have followed him, lingering in his soul like a shadow that refused to let go.

"I couldn't keep pretending to be okay," Robert whispered, his voice breaking. "I couldn't keep pretending that everything was fine when it wasn't. I couldn't ask for help, because I felt like I didn't deserve it. I felt like I was broken, like there was no way out. So I just... gave up."

The Angel of Death knelt before him, his eyes filled with compassion. "Robert, you are not broken. You are not alone in your struggle. So many souls have walked through similar pain. Mental health is not something to be ashamed of. You did not choose this path, but the weight you carried was real."

"But I couldn't fix it," Robert cried, his voice raw. "I couldn't make it stop. I couldn't... live with it anymore."

The Angel of Death extended his hand toward Robert, his touch warm and comforting. "It's okay to feel lost, Robert. It's okay to not have all the answers. But you need to understand that this struggle was not your fault. You were never meant to bear it alone."

Robert's hands clenched at his sides, his body trembling as he fought the urge to collapse. "But I... I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't beat it."

The Angel of Death's gaze softened. "You did not fail, Robert. Struggles like yours—mental health struggles—are not a measure of your strength or worth. They are part of the human experience, and asking for help, acknowledging the pain, is not weakness, but courage."

Robert looked up at him, his eyes filled with both confusion and longing. "But... what now? What happens to me? Can it ever be fixed?"

"You are not broken," the Angel repeated softly. "You are healing, even now. This journey is not about fixing the past or erasing the pain. It's about understanding that healing comes with time, with compassion, and with self-acceptance. Your journey does not end here, Robert. You are free now. You are not defined by your struggles. You are defined by your strength to keep going, even when the world felt like it was falling apart."

For a moment, Robert stood silent, as if processing the words that had been spoken to him. The darkness that had surrounded him seemed to lift just slightly, as if a sliver of light had pierced through the dense fog.

"I don't know if I'll ever be okay," Robert whispered, more to himself than to the Angel. "But... maybe I can learn to live with it. Maybe... maybe I can learn to accept that it's okay to not be okay."

The Angel of Death gave a gentle nod, his eyes filled with empathy. "That is the first step toward healing, Robert. It is okay to not have all the answers. It is okay to ask for help. And it is okay to take the time you need to heal. You are worthy of that."

Robert's shoulders seemed to relax slightly, the tightness in his chest loosening for the first time in what felt like forever. He stood there, breathing deeply, as if allowing himself to feel the weight of his own emotions, without shame or fear.

The Angel of Death rose to his feet, offering Robert his hand once again. "Come, Robert. Let us begin the next step of your journey. There is peace ahead, and though the road may still be long, you no longer have to walk it in darkness."

Robert hesitated for only a moment before taking the Angel's hand, his grip firm, but filled with uncertainty. And together, they stepped forward, leaving behind the fractured landscape of grief and struggle, moving toward a place where healing, acceptance, and peace awaited.

As they walked, the gray sky above began to soften, the clouds parting just enough to reveal the first light of dawn—soft, gentle, and full of hope.

---

The next soul arrived in a place that was both familiar and foreign. It was a serene, quiet meadow, where the air was heavy with the scent of blooming flowers, yet there was an undeniable ache in the atmosphere. The sky was a deep, comforting blue, scattered with wisps of clouds, but the peacefulness of the setting didn't seem to reach the soul who stood there, looking lost and broken.

Before the Angel of Death stood a woman, her expression filled with a quiet sorrow that spoke of years of love and loss. She was not young, not old, but somewhere in between—a middle-aged woman with a soft face, now marked by grief, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow.

She stood with her back to the Angel, staring out at the horizon, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The weight of her emotions seemed to hang in the air, tangible and raw.

"Are you ready to walk the next part of your journey?" the Angel of Death asked gently, his voice soft but firm in its presence.

The woman turned slowly, her gaze unfocused at first, then locking onto the Angel of Death with a look that was both weary and filled with longing. Her name was Eleanor.

"I don't know if I'm ready," she said, her voice hoarse. "I thought I'd had time. I thought I'd have more time to make it right. But now, I'm here... and I never got the chance to say goodbye."

The Angel of Death took a step closer, his presence a comforting one. "It is difficult for many souls to accept their passing, Eleanor. But you were not alone in your journey, and you are not alone now."

Eleanor's hands trembled slightly as she looked down at them. "My family... I didn't want to leave them. I didn't want to leave my children, my husband. I thought... I thought I had more time to fix the things we didn't say, the things we didn't do. There were so many things left undone. And now, they're going to have to live without me. And I... I don't know how to let go of that."

Her voice faltered, and her tears began to fall freely, dripping down her cheeks like small streams of grief.

"You gave them everything you could, Eleanor," the Angel of Death said softly, moving closer. "Your love, your care, your strength. They will carry that with them, even in your absence."

"But I was supposed to be there," Eleanor whispered, wiping at her face, but not being able to stop the tears. "I was supposed to be there for them. I should've been there for my husband when he needed me the most, when he struggled. I should've been there to support my children, to guide them through life. I thought I had time, but now... now it's too late."

The Angel of Death remained silent for a moment, allowing her grief to wash over her. He could feel the depth of her love, and the weight of her regret. It was a struggle many souls faced— the feeling of unfinished business, the yearning to have said or done more, and the ache of leaving behind loved ones.

"You did what you could," the Angel of Death spoke after a pause. "And your love for them is far more enduring than any physical presence. The bonds you formed, the moments you shared, they will carry your memory, and they will honor you with their lives."

"But it won't be the same," Eleanor said quietly. "It won't be enough. I won't be there to guide them through the tough times, to laugh with them, to help them when they fall. I won't be there for them to lean on. I won't see them grow, or hold my grandchildren in my arms. I won't see them live the lives I dreamed for them."

The Angel of Death stepped forward and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. "You may not be physically present, but you will always be with them. In the quiet moments, in the lessons you taught them, in the love you gave them. They will carry you with them. And though they may not see you, they will feel your presence, always."

Eleanor looked up at the sky, her gaze distant, as though searching for a sign, a sign that she had done enough, that she was truly ready to let go. Her heart was heavy, but as the Angel of Death's words sank in, there was a flicker of acceptance in her eyes, the smallest glimmer of peace.

"But how can I leave them?" she whispered. "How can I go on, knowing they'll be lost without me?"

The Angel of Death's voice was kind, yet firm, his words steady and comforting. "Your family will grieve, of course. But grief is not the end. It is the beginning of a new journey for them, just as this is the beginning of yours. They will honor your memory and the love you shared, and in time, they will find their way. You will always be a part of them. You will never truly be gone."

Eleanor's shoulders slumped as if the weight of her grief had lightened just a little. "I just wish I could see them one last time... just to tell them how much I love them."

"I know," the Angel said gently. "That longing will always remain. But love is never bound by distance, and even death cannot sever the bond between family. You will always be a part of their hearts."

She nodded slowly, her breath shaky but steady. "I hope they know that," she said softly. "I hope they know how much I love them, and that I will always be with them."

"You have done well, Eleanor. You loved deeply, and that love will remain with them, even after you are gone. That is your gift to them."

With a deep breath, Eleanor turned her gaze one last time toward the horizon, the fading light of the day casting a soft glow on her face. The pain was still there, but it was quieter now, more distant, as though her heart had found a space to breathe.

The Angel of Death extended his hand once more, and this time, Eleanor didn't hesitate. She reached for it, her fingers trembling slightly, but her grip strong. Together, they began walking toward the next part of her journey, leaving behind the meadow, the place of her final goodbyes, and moving toward the peace she had finally accepted.

And in the distance, the sound of family—of love, laughter, and life—whispered on the wind, as though calling her home.