39
The soul stood in a dimly lit office, the glow of computer monitors casting a pale blue hue across the room. Spreadsheets, graphs, and lines of code flickered on the screens — numbers and patterns, once so familiar, now distant and meaningless. An old coffee mug, stained from countless late nights, sat untouched on the desk.
The Angel of Death appeared beside the monitor, watching the soul stare at the data as if it still held answers.
"It never felt like enough," the soul murmured, voice low. "All those hours. All those numbers. I thought if I just worked a little harder… found the right insights… maybe I could change something."
The Angel tilted their head. "You did."
The soul scoffed. "I analyzed numbers. Built models. Made predictions. I wasn't saving lives or changing the world. Just… optimizing ad campaigns. Increasing revenue margins. Moving dots on a graph."
The Angel stepped closer, voice gentle but steady. "You saw more than dots. You saw patterns where others saw noise. You found ways to make things better — not just for companies, but for people. The logistics model you built cut delivery times, and a father got his daughter's birthday gift on time. The healthcare data you cleaned helped a doctor catch a diagnosis sooner. The non-profit you volunteered for used your analysis to secure funding that fed families for another year."
The soul blinked, startled. "I… wasn't thinking about that. I just wanted the data to make sense."
"You weren't chasing numbers," the Angel said softly. "You were chasing truth. And you found it — in ways no one else could."
The soul stared at the screen, remembering the endless nights, the stress, the self-doubt. It all felt so small compared to the quiet impact they never noticed.
"I thought I was invisible," the soul whispered.
The Angel's voice was warm. "You weren't. The world doesn't always notice the ones who work in the background. But that doesn't mean they weren't changed by you."
The monitors flickered once, then dimmed. The endless data — all the numbers, graphs, and code — faded into light, soft and warm, like the first sunrise after an all-nighter.
The Angel extended a hand. "It's time."
The soul hesitated, then reached out.
Somewhere, a doctor refreshed a patient's chart, grateful for the predictive model that flagged an anomaly just in time. A small business owner looked at a report and smiled, realizing they finally turned a profit. A child ate a warm meal, not knowing the data that helped secure the funding that made it possible.
None of them knew the analyst's name.
But their lives were better for it.
---
The soul found itself in a cozy, cluttered workspace. Posters, sketches, and half-finished designs covered the walls. A tablet lay on the desk, stylus resting beside it — the last design still open, unfinished. Bright colors and bold typography stared back, frozen in time.
The Angel of Death appeared quietly, observing the soul as they looked around the familiar chaos.
"All that effort," the soul muttered, voice heavy. "Draft after draft, revision after revision. Clients always wanted something 'just a little different.' It never felt good enough."
The Angel stepped forward, voice soft. "It was."
The soul huffed a dry laugh. "I made logos no one noticed, posters people ignored, and social media ads that got scrolled past in half a second. It wasn't exactly meaningful work."
The Angel tilted their head. "Is that what you think? That no one noticed?"
The soul looked down. "Yeah. Pretty much."
The Angel's voice grew warmer. "The café owner who barely stayed in business? Your logo gave his shop a face — something customers remembered. The indie musician who couldn't afford a promoter? Your album cover caught the eye of someone who gave them a chance. The small-town bakery's website? Your cheerful design made families stop in after school. They didn't see the hours of work behind it… but they felt it."
The soul blinked, memories surfacing — the pride after a project was finally approved, the quiet joy seeing their work out in the world, even when no one knew who made it.
"I just wanted it to matter," the soul whispered.
The Angel's voice was steady, kind. "It did. You gave ideas a face. You turned words into emotions. You made people feel something — even if they didn't realize why."
The room faded, the colors of the posters and designs blending into soft light, vibrant and warm, like a sunset on a blank canvas.
The Angel extended a hand. "It's time."
The soul stared at the desk one last time, then smiled softly and reached out.
Somewhere, a musician signed a record deal. A bakery filled with laughter and the smell of fresh bread. A café owner watched customers come in and stay a little longer than they used to.
None of them knew the designer's name.
But they saw the world through their art.
---
The soul stood in a dimly lit room, wires snaking along the walls and a toolbox resting open on the floor. The faint smell of burnt copper lingered in the air. A work jacket hung by the door, its pockets filled with bits of electrical tape and old screws. A half-finished wiring diagram sat on the table, drawn in neat, careful lines.
The Angel of Death appeared quietly, watching the soul take in the familiar scene.
"All those years," the soul muttered, voice low. "Climbing poles in the rain, crawling through attics in the summer heat… fixing things no one ever thinks about unless they stop working."
The Angel stepped forward, voice steady but kind. "And yet, they always trusted that the lights would come back on."
The soul chuckled dryly. "Yeah. Until they didn't."
The Angel tilted their head. "They always did — because of you. The family whose heat came back in the dead of winter? They slept warm that night. The single mom whose power went out before dinner? Her kids didn't eat in the dark. The hospital generator you repaired during that storm? It kept running long enough to save three lives."
The soul blinked, startled. "I didn't… I didn't think about it like that. I was just doing the job."
The Angel's voice softened. "That's what made it matter. You never needed recognition. You just wanted to help — to fix what was broken. And you did. More than you'll ever know."
The dim room slowly brightened, the tangled wires and dusty walls dissolving into warm, steady light — like the glow from a newly restored bulb after a blackout.
The Angel extended a hand. "It's time."
The soul stared at the old work jacket, remembering the early mornings, the late nights, the quiet satisfaction of a job done right — even when no one noticed.
They smiled, just a little, and reached out.
Somewhere, a family flicked on their porch light without thinking. A street lit up again after a power surge. A hospital room stayed bright and warm through the night.
None of them knew the electrician's name.
But their world stayed lit because of them.
---
The soul found itself standing in a small, cluttered home office. A laptop sat on the desk, still open to a half-written post, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat. Sticky notes covered the walls — reminders, ideas, and hastily scribbled content plans. A cold cup of coffee rested beside the keyboard.
The Angel of Death appeared quietly, observing the soul staring at the screen.
"All that work," the soul murmured, voice hollow. "Posts, captions, engagement strategies… chasing algorithms. For what? A few likes? A couple of shares?"
The Angel stepped forward, voice calm and gentle. "For the businesses that stayed afloat because of those likes. For the creators who found their audience. For the small brands that became household names. They didn't see you… but they felt your work."
The soul huffed a dry laugh. "No one cares who wrote the posts. They just scroll past."
The Angel tilted their head. "Maybe. But that bakery sold out every weekend after your campaign. That local shelter found homes for dozens of animals because you made people notice. That struggling artist finally got commissions because of the account you built. You didn't just write posts — you gave people a voice when they didn't know how to speak to the world."
The soul blinked, the weight of it all sinking in. "I… I just wanted to make a difference. Even a small one."
The Angel's voice was warm now. "You did. More than you ever knew."
The cluttered room slowly brightened, the sticky notes glowing like warm little sparks, the laptop's screen fading into soft light — like the quiet buzz of a phone lighting up with a notification.
The Angel extended a hand. "It's time."
The soul stared at the unfinished post one last time — the draft of a hopeful message meant to lift someone's day — then smiled softly and reached out.
Somewhere, a café woke up to a flood of new orders. A small nonprofit saw donations roll in. An artist's inbox filled with commission requests.
None of them knew the social media manager's name.
But their voices were heard — because of them.