28

The next soul sat alone at a worn, wooden desk that wasn't really there. Papers were scattered across it — graded assignments, lesson plans, and a red pen that never seemed to run dry. The classroom around them was quiet and empty, save for the faint echo of children's laughter that wasn't truly there anymore. The chalkboard was clean, but a faint outline of past lessons still lingered.

The Angel of Death stepped into the room, voice gentle.

"You shaped so many lives."

The soul didn't look up, their voice quiet and weary. "I tried. I don't know if it was enough."

The Angel tilted his head. "They remember you."

The soul let out a soft, tired chuckle. "They'll forget. People move on. I was just… a teacher."

The Angel stepped closer. "You were never just a teacher."

The soul sighed. "I wasn't special. I wasn't the kind of teacher that gets remembered in speeches or writes inspiring books. I didn't change the world."

The Angel's voice stayed steady. "Maybe not the world. But you changed theirs."

The soul finally looked up, eyes filled with doubt. "...Did I?"

The Angel nodded. "You taught them more than facts. You taught them how to believe in themselves. How to be kind. How to grow."

The soul swallowed hard. "I wanted to give them everything. But sometimes… sometimes I wasn't patient enough. Sometimes I lost my temper. Sometimes I gave up on a student who needed me."

The Angel's voice softened. "You're human. You gave what you could. And even when you stumbled, you never stopped caring."

The soul blinked back tears. "I just wanted them to be better than me."

The Angel's voice was warm. "They are. Because of you."

The soul's voice cracked. "...I hope so."

The Angel stepped beside the desk, voice low and kind. "They'll carry what you taught them — even if they don't realize it. And one day, they'll pass it on to someone else."

The soul stared at the papers on the desk, then slowly, carefully, set down the red pen. Their voice trembled.

"...I think I'm ready now."

The Angel extended a hand. "Let's go."

And as they walked into the light, the classroom faded — but the faint sound of children's laughter lingered, soft and endless, long after they were gone.

---

The next soul stood tall, though their armor was battered and worn. A dim torch flickered on a stone wall that wasn't truly there, casting shadows over the dented helmet tucked under one arm. The air smelled faintly of rain and iron, a ghostly memory of long nights standing watch.

The Angel of Death stepped forward, voice steady but gentle.

"You protected them."

The soul didn't turn around. Their voice was low, rough. "It was my job."

The Angel tilted his head. "It was more than that."

The soul exhaled slowly. "Maybe. But no one remembers the guard at the gate. People remember the kings, the heroes, the ones who lead. Not the ones who watch from the shadows."

The Angel stepped closer. "Maybe they didn't see you. But they slept peacefully because you were there."

The soul was silent for a moment. "...There were times I wanted to leave. To do something more. To be someone more."

The Angel's voice stayed calm. "Why didn't you?"

The soul's voice softened. "Because someone had to stay. Someone had to keep them safe."

The Angel nodded slowly. "And you did. Even when no one noticed."

The soul's voice faltered. "I wasn't brave. I was just… stubborn."

The Angel's voice didn't waver. "Bravery isn't always loud. Sometimes it's standing in the cold, night after night, knowing no one will thank you — and doing it anyway."

The soul's shoulders sagged. "...I just wanted them to be safe."

The Angel stepped closer. "They were. Because of you."

The soul's voice was barely a whisper now. "...That's enough, then."

The Angel extended a hand. "It is."

And as they walked into the light, the torch on the wall flickered once — then burned brighter, even after the soul was gone.

---

The next soul stood by a blazing forge that wasn't truly there. Sparks danced in the air, and the rhythmic clang of a hammer against steel echoed softly, as if the world itself remembered the sound. An anvil sat sturdy and worn, edges smoothed from a lifetime of work.

The Angel of Death approached, voice steady and calm.

"You built strength."

The soul didn't look up, their voice rough and low. "I shaped metal. Nothing more."

The Angel tilted his head. "It was more than that."

The soul let out a slow breath. "I wasn't a knight or a hero. I made their swords, but they got the glory."

The Angel stepped closer. "And they wouldn't have survived without you."

The soul's voice wavered. "They never knew my name. No one thanks the hammer."

The Angel's voice was quiet, but firm. "They didn't have to. The blades you forged carried them through battle. The tools you crafted built their homes. Your work lived on — even when they didn't realize it."

The soul stared at the anvil, hands tightening into fists. "...I wanted to do more. To be more."

The Angel's voice softened. "You gave them the strength to fight. To protect. To build. Isn't that enough?"

The soul's voice broke. "...I just wanted to keep them safe."

The Angel stepped beside him. "You did. Your work held strong, even when everything else fell apart."

The soul's shoulders trembled, and for a moment, the hammer in his hand felt too heavy to hold. Slowly, he set it down on the anvil. His voice was barely above a whisper.

"...Then I'm ready."

The Angel extended a hand. "Let's go."

And as they walked into the light, the forge faded — but the anvil remained, warm and steady, as if the fire within it would never truly go out.

---

The next soul stood behind an old wooden stall, though neither the stall nor the bustling market around them was truly there. The scent of spices lingered faintly in the air, and the rustle of coins echoed softly, like a distant memory. Worn scales sat on the counter, perfectly balanced, though they hadn't measured anything in a long time.

The Angel of Death approached, voice calm and steady.

"You connected people."

The soul chuckled bitterly, not looking up. "I sold things. That's all."

The Angel tilted his head. "It was more than that."

The soul let out a breath, rough and tired. "I wasn't a leader or a scholar. I didn't create anything. I just… traded. Moved things from one hand to another."

The Angel stepped closer. "You brought food to the hungry. Cloth to the cold. Tools to the builders. You gave them what they needed to survive — to live."

The soul's voice wavered. "...They only saw me when they needed something. No one remembered me after."

The Angel's voice softened. "But they remembered the full stomachs. The warm clothes. The shelter that stood because you sold the right nails and beams. They may not have known your name, but your work lived in their lives."

The soul stared at the scales. "I always wondered... did I help enough? Or was it all just greed in the end?"

The Angel's voice was gentle but certain. "You bartered. You bargained. But you never turned away someone who truly needed you — even when they couldn't pay."

The soul's voice was barely a whisper now. "...I just wanted to make a life for myself. For my family."

The Angel stepped beside him. "You did. And you helped more lives than you ever realized."

The soul's shoulders sagged, the weight of old deals and distant markets finally lifting. Their hand lingered on the counter for a moment, then slowly fell away.

"...I think I'm ready."

The Angel extended a hand. "Let's go."

And as they walked into the light, the market faded — but the scales remained, perfectly balanced, as though they were waiting for the next trade, the next chance to make life a little better for someone else.