33

The room was quiet, filled with the faint smell of old books and the warmth of sunlight bleeding through the dusty curtains. The soul stood by the bed, watching the scene unfold as though they were an outsider — a visitor in their own life.

A figure sat on the edge of the bed, clutching a worn photograph with trembling hands. Their shoulders shook, though no sound came. The kind of grief that runs too deep for tears. The kind that steals your voice and leaves only silence.

The Angel of Death watched from the doorway, his expression unreadable. He didn't speak yet. He knew this part was sacred.

The soul's voice trembled. "They're still holding on to me."

The Angel nodded, stepping closer. "Because you're still holding on to them."

The soul's throat tightened. "I don't want to let go. If I do... what's left of me?"

The Angel's voice was steady, but gentle. "Letting go doesn't erase you. It doesn't erase them. The love you shared is real. It doesn't disappear just because you're gone."

The soul's voice cracked. "But they'll forget me. Eventually. Won't they?"

The Angel shook his head. "No. The memory might fade at the edges. The pain might soften. But love leaves fingerprints on the heart — ones that never truly wash away."

The soul watched the figure on the bed, their heart aching with a longing that words couldn't touch. "I just want to hold them. One more time."

The Angel's eyes softened. "You already are. Every time they close their eyes and see your face. Every time they hear your voice in a quiet room. Every time they laugh at a joke you would've loved. You're there."

The soul's voice was barely a whisper. "It's not the same."

"No," the Angel agreed softly. "It's not. But it's still real. And it's enough for them to keep going — even if they don't believe that yet."

The soul's gaze lingered on the figure, their heart breaking all over again. "I loved them more than anything."

The Angel's voice was steady, unwavering. "And they know. That love doesn't vanish. It holds them up when they can't stand. It keeps them warm when the nights are too cold. And someday... it'll hurt a little less."

The soul blinked back tears that couldn't fall. "Will I ever stop missing them?"

The Angel stepped closer, his voice low and kind. "No. But the ache won't always feel like this. It'll become part of you — a quiet hum instead of a scream. And the love will stay. Always."

The soul closed their eyes, taking one last look at the person they loved. Their voice shook with the weight of goodbye.

"I wish I could stay."

The Angel spoke softly, like a promise.

"They'll carry you with them. You already are."

The soul lingered a moment longer, reaching out as though they could touch one last time — and though their hand passed through, the figure on the bed stirred, pressing the photograph to their heart.

The Angel waited until the soul was ready. And when they finally were, the room felt a little warmer.

Because love never really leaves. It lingers, like a final embrace that never lets go.

---

The moonlight spilled through the window, casting pale silver streaks across the room. The only sound was the faint rustle of blankets and the quiet, uneven breaths of someone trying — and failing — to hold back tears.

A figure lay curled up on the bed, their back to the door. The pillow beneath their head was already damp, but they didn't care. The weight in their chest felt unbearable, pressing down like an anchor, making it hard to breathe. Each inhale came with a tremble, each exhale with a silent sob.

They didn't cry during the day. They couldn't. There were people to see, roles to fill, a mask to wear. Smiles that didn't reach their eyes, laughter that never touched their heart.

But at night — when the world was quiet and no one was watching — the truth came spilling out. The tears they swallowed all day finally found their way to the surface, soaking into the pillow.

The Angel of Death watched from the corner of the room, unseen. His expression wasn't cold or distant. It was soft. Understanding.

Some pain wasn't loud. It didn't scream or shatter or break things. Some pain was quiet. It lived in the stillness, in the moments no one else saw. It wasn't less powerful — if anything, it was heavier. The kind of grief that didn't beg for attention. It just was.

The soul hovered near their own body, watching the scene unfold. Their voice was barely a whisper. "I didn't know they felt this way."

The Angel's voice was low and steady. "People hide their pain from the ones they love. Sometimes they think it's kindness. Sometimes they're just afraid of being a burden."

The soul's voice trembled. "I thought they were okay."

The Angel looked at the sleeping figure, shoulders shaking even in slumber. "They pretended to be. For you."

The soul's throat tightened. "They shouldn't have to."

The Angel didn't answer immediately. He let the weight of the moment settle before he spoke. "Love makes people do strange things. It makes them strong, even when they're breaking inside. It's a cruel, beautiful thing."

The soul's voice broke. "What happens to them now?"

The Angel sighed softly. "They'll keep going. Because that's what people do. The pain won't vanish, but they'll learn to carry it. And someday, the pillow will stay dry."

The soul watched as the figure clutched the pillow tighter, a muffled sob escaping into the fabric. Their voice was barely audible. "I just want to tell them it's okay. That I'm still here."

The Angel's voice was quiet, but certain. "They know. Even if they don't realize it yet."

The soul stared for a moment longer before whispering, "I wish they didn't hurt so much."

The Angel nodded. "So do they."

The room remained still, save for the sound of quiet weeping. The Angel waited — because some pain couldn't be hurried. And when the time finally came, the soul followed him into the light, leaving behind only the faintest warmth in the cold, tear-soaked night.

The figure on the bed stirred, their sobs slowing. Their hand relaxed, falling away from the pillow.

For the first time in nights, their breathing evened out. And though they didn't know why, the room felt just a little less lonely.

---

The house was quiet — too quiet.

It wasn't the peaceful kind of silence, the sort that wraps around you like a warm blanket. This was different. It was heavy. Hollow. The kind of silence that rang louder than any sound ever could.

A chair sat at the kitchen table, untouched. A cup sat on the counter, exactly where it had been left. Dust gathered on picture frames that no one had the heart to clean. Every corner of the house held a memory, and every memory carried the weight of what wasn't there anymore.

They sat on the couch, staring at the TV that wasn't even on. The static hum of an empty room filled their ears. It wasn't that they didn't want to move — they just didn't see the point anymore.

The silence wasn't just in the house. It was in their chest, too. An empty ache that never seemed to leave, no matter how many mornings they woke up or how many nights they fell asleep pretending they were okay.

The Angel of Death watched quietly from the shadows. He had no reason to stay — the soul had long since moved on — but still, he lingered.

The soul hovered beside him, watching the person they left behind. Their voice was soft, barely more than a whisper. "They're not... living. Not really."

The Angel didn't look away. "Sometimes, the hardest part isn't saying goodbye. It's waking up the next day."

The soul's voice trembled. "I didn't think it would hurt this much."

The Angel's voice was low, steady. "It always does."

The soul's gaze dropped to the floor. "They look so… lost."

The Angel finally turned his head, his eyes soft. "They are. But people aren't meant to stay lost forever."

The soul swallowed hard. "What if they never find their way back?"

The Angel's voice was barely above a whisper now. "They will. The silence won't stay forever. One day, the noise of life will find its way in again — even if they don't believe it right now."

The soul's voice cracked. "I just wish they didn't have to suffer."

The Angel sighed. "That's the price of love. It never really leaves. Even when the person does."

The soul closed their eyes for a moment, and the room felt heavier. The Angel stayed a little longer, watching the lonely figure on the couch, before he turned to leave.

The silence remained — but for the first time in a long while, it didn't feel quite as empty.

---

The old house stood still, frozen in time. Its walls, once filled with laughter and warmth, now held only shadows and echoes.

A broken swing dangled from the tree in the yard, swaying gently in the wind. It used to carry a child's carefree laughter, but now it creaked like a whisper from the past. The window to the second-floor bedroom was cracked, though no one lived there anymore. It overlooked the empty street, where a bike used to race up and down the pavement, tires skidding with joy.

Inside, the air was stale. Toys lay scattered across the floor, untouched for years. A stuffed bear, missing an eye, slumped in the corner — a silent guardian to a bed too small for the child who once slept there. The wallpaper, peeling at the edges, still held faint marks of crayon doodles. A stick figure family smiled back, frozen in a happier time.

The Angel of Death stood quietly in the hallway, his presence unnoticed. He wasn't here for anyone living. He was here for the echoes. For the pieces left behind.

The soul appeared beside him — a child, barely old enough to understand what had happened. Their voice was small, uncertain. "This was my home."

The Angel nodded. "It was."

The child looked around, eyes lingering on the broken toys and faded drawings. "It looks different now."

"It always does," the Angel said softly. "Memories keep the light alive, even when the house grows cold."

The child frowned. "They fought a lot here. Mom and Dad. They yelled so much."

The Angel didn't flinch. He had heard it all before. "They did. But they loved you. That's why it hurts so much now."

The child's voice wavered. "Do they miss me?"

The Angel's voice was gentle, steady. "Every day. More than you'll ever know."

The child glanced at the doorway, where two figures stood in the dim light — a man and a woman, older, worn down by grief. The father's hands trembled as he held the same stuffed bear from the corner. The mother pressed her hand to the wall, her fingertips tracing the crayon drawings. Their tears fell silently, the weight of their sorrow filling the room.

"They stopped yelling," the child whispered.

The Angel's voice was barely a murmur. "Sometimes, losing what matters most reminds people what they had all along."

The child stepped closer to the figures but stopped, knowing they couldn't be seen. A single tear rolled down their cheek. "I don't want them to be sad."

The Angel placed a hand on the child's shoulder, his touch light as a feather. "They won't always be. In time, the pain will turn into memories. And the memories will keep you alive in their hearts."

The child stared for a moment longer, then nodded slowly. "Okay."

The Angel gave a small, sad smile. "It's time to go."

The child hesitated one last time, then whispered, "Goodbye, Mom. Dad. I love you."

The mother gasped softly, as if a breeze had touched her cheek. Her eyes lifted, searching the empty room. The father's hand tightened around the bear, his voice breaking. "I love you too, kiddo."

And then, the child was gone — a light fading into the beyond.

The Angel lingered only a moment longer, watching the parents hold each other in the quiet, broken room. The echoes of the lost childhood remained, but now they felt different. Softer. Less like sorrow, and more like love that refused to fade.

The house, though shattered, wasn't empty anymore. It still held the child's laughter — not in sound, but in the walls, in the toys, in the crayon drawings. In the hearts of those left behind.