9

The next soul practically bounced into existence — literally.

A woman in her mid-30s appeared mid-cartwheel, landing with a triumphant "Ta-da!" and her arms thrown into the air. She wore a brightly colored jumpsuit covered in polka dots, oversized sunglasses, and a floppy sunhat with a plastic flamingo sticking out of the top. Her grin was so wide it looked like it might fall off her face.

"Whoooaaa, this place is snazzy!" she said, spinning around like she was admiring the décor — which was mostly just an endless, serene void. "Bit minimalist, but I like it. Very... 'modern afterlife chic.'"

The Angel of Death stared at her. "...Your name?"

"Becky Bubbles!" she declared proudly. "Well, technically Rebecca Barnes, but who wants to be a Rebecca when you can be Becky Bubbles? That's what everyone calls me. Or, well, that's what I told everyone to call me. Still counts, right?"

The Angel blinked slowly. "Right. Cause of death: slipped on a banana peel."

Becky's eyes went wide. "Oh wow, seriously? I thought that only happened in cartoons. Wait — did I make a funny sound effect when I fell? Like a 'boing' or a 'whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop' before I hit the ground? Oh, please say yes."

The Angel, for the first time in centuries, hesitated. "...There was a sort of... splat."

Becky let out an excited gasp. "Yes! Classic! That's comedy gold."

The Angel tilted his head, confused. "You… seem very cheerful for someone who just died."

Becky waved a hand dismissively. "Eh, life's short — apparently really short when bananas are involved. But what's the point of getting all sad about it? I spent my whole life making people laugh. I'm not about to stop now just because I went splat."

The Angel stared at her for a long moment, then found himself asking something he never expected to. "...Why?"

Becky tilted her head, her flamingo hat wobbling dangerously. "Why what?"

"Why go through life being silly? Most people spend their days chasing success, love, meaning… you chased giggles."

Becky smiled softly — a rare flicker of sincerity peeking through her playful exterior. "Because laughter's the only thing that really sticks, y'know? People forget what you say, what you do, even what you look like. But they never forget how you made them feel. And if I could make someone snort milk out of their nose or laugh so hard they couldn't breathe — well, that's better than any legacy, isn't it?"

The Angel of Death blinked again, surprised by the sudden warmth that settled in his chest. He wasn't sure he could even feel warmth.

After a pause, he nodded. "It is."

Becky clapped her hands together. "Alright then! What's next, Grimmy? Do I get to haunt people? I'm really good at making spooky ghost noises."

The Angel stared at her for a moment, then finally — finally — let out the tiniest, almost imperceptible chuckle.

"...Let's just say I think the afterlife could use a little more laughter."

Becky grinned wider than ever. "That's the spirit!"

As she disappeared in a burst of confetti — because of course she did — the Angel of Death shook his head with an amused sigh.

"Becky Bubbles," he murmured to himself, almost smiling. "You're going to be remembered."

---

The next soul emerged not with a dramatic flash or a cheerful bounce — but with a hesitant, awkward stumble.

A man in his late 20s appeared, looking down at his feet as if he wasn't quite sure how they worked. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie was crooked, and his hair stuck up on one side like he'd just rolled out of bed. He glanced up at the Angel of Death with an uncomfortable half-smile.

"Uh… hey," he said, scratching the back of his head nervously. "So, uh… this is awkward. I guess I'm dead now, huh? Figures."

The Angel studied him for a moment. "Your name?"

"Daniel Hayes," he said with a sigh. "But most people just call me… Danny. Or 'Oh, Danny, not again.' Depends who you ask."

The Angel raised an eyebrow. "Cause of death: slipped on wet floor while holding a birthday cake… and accidentally set off the fire alarm with a party horn."

Danny winced. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

The Angel tilted his head. "You don't seem surprised."

Danny gave a dry chuckle. "Honestly? I'm not. I've been a walking disaster since I could walk. I once tripped over my own shoelace and landed face-first in a bowl of mashed potatoes — at a wedding. Not even my wedding."

The Angel stared, unsure how to respond to that. Danny sighed, running a hand through his messy hair.

"Everyone's always telling me I'm too clumsy, too awkward, too… wrong. I spent so much time trying to fix myself. To be smarter, cooler, smoother — y'know, less of a human trainwreck. But I never quite got there. Guess now I don't have to worry about it anymore, huh?"

The Angel of Death was quiet for a moment, then spoke in a softer voice than usual. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe you weren't meant to 'fix' yourself?"

Danny blinked. "What do you mean?"

"You saw your imperfections as failures," the Angel said. "But from where I stand… you lived. Fully. You made mistakes, yes — but you also made people laugh, even if you didn't mean to. You made them feel less alone in their own messes. You were human in a way they recognized — and loved."

Danny stared at him, eyes wide. "...I never thought of it like that."

The Angel gave the faintest nod. "Perfection isn't what leaves a mark on the world. People remember the ones who weren't afraid to be real — even if 'real' means a little awkward and a lot messy."

For the first time, Danny smiled without hesitation. It was crooked, imperfect… and genuine.

"Y'know," he said, his voice lighter now, "I think I could get used to that."

The Angel extended his hand. "Then let's move on, Danny. There's nothing left to fix — only more to discover."

Danny grinned. "Alright. Let's go. But fair warning — I'll probably trip on the way there."

The Angel of Death didn't even try to stop the small chuckle that escaped this time.

"I'll catch you," he said.

---

The next soul appeared with an air of quiet confidence — a man in his early 40s, dressed in a sharp suit that looked expensive but not flashy. His dark hair was slicked back, and his eyes were sharp, observant. He looked around the space, assessing everything in an instant before settling his gaze on the Angel of Death.

"Well," the man said smoothly, "I suppose this means the game's over, huh?"

The Angel tilted his head. "Your name?"

"Victor Hale," the man answered with a smirk. "Entrepreneur. Investor. Negotiator. Professional charmer, if you ask the right people."

The Angel glanced at the list. "Cause of death: poisoning… during a business dinner."

Victor's smirk twitched for a second, but he recovered fast. "Yeah, well… guess I shouldn't have trusted the wine." He let out a dry chuckle. "Funny thing, trust. It's the most valuable currency out there — and the easiest thing to fake."

The Angel studied him. "It sounds like you speak from experience."

Victor laughed, but it was hollow. "Oh, you could say that. I built everything I had by knowing who to trust — and when to make people trust me. Deals, mergers, partnerships... it's all about trust. Or at least, the illusion of it."

He paused, his voice quieter now. "I wasn't always the good guy. Sometimes I lied. Sometimes I smiled while holding the knife. But… I did what I had to do. The world isn't kind to people who play fair."

The Angel was silent for a moment, then asked, "And did it make you happy?"

Victor's smirk faltered — this time, it didn't come back. His shoulders slumped.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I kept telling myself that once I had enough — enough money, enough power, enough respect — then I'd finally feel safe. Like I'd finally made it."

He swallowed hard. "But no matter how high I climbed, I kept looking over my shoulder. Wondering which 'trusted partner' would be the one to shove me off the ledge." He let out a bitter laugh. "Turns out, I was right to wonder."

The Angel stepped closer. "Trust is a risk, Victor. But it's not a currency — it's a gift. One that can't be bought or sold. And when it's real… it's worth more than all the wealth in the world."

Victor stared at him, his confident mask crumbling. "...I think I knew that. Deep down. But I was too afraid to believe it."

The Angel extended his hand. "It's not too late to learn. Let's go."

Victor stared at the hand for a long moment — then, for the first time in his life (or death), he dropped the act. He reached out, his hand steady, and took the Angel's.

"Alright," he said softly. "No more games."

And as he vanished into the light, the Angel of Death whispered, "No more lies."