an old friend

The old man lay in his bed, his breaths shallow, the weight of his years pressing down on his frail body. His room was dimly lit by the fading light of the evening sun, and the air was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards. His thoughts drifted like autumn leaves, settling on a memory he had carried with him for decades—a memory of the god of death.

He had been a boy of twelve, wide-eyed and full of curiosity, living in a small village nestled between the hills. That fateful day, the village had been mourning the loss of the blacksmith, a kind man with hands as strong as iron and a heart as soft as lamb's wool. The blacksmith had been beloved by all, and his sudden passing left a hollow in the hearts of many.

The boy had been too young to truly understand grief, but he had been old enough to be curious. Drawn by the whispers of the adults and the solemn atmosphere, he crept to the blacksmith's home as twilight began to fall. Peeking through the cracked wooden door, he saw something he would never forget.

Standing beside the blacksmith's still body was a figure unlike any he had ever seen. The god of death, Admatha.

Admatha's presence was otherworldly yet serene. His skin was pale, glowing softly like the moon on a cloudless night. His nails were as black as the depths of the night sky, a striking contrast to the delicate gold accents that adorned his flowing black robe. A veil obscured his face, leaving only the faintest outline of his features visible, but even through the veil, the boy thought he could see a gentle smile.

And then there was the fragrance. The air was filled with the scent of flowers—not the cloying sweetness of blooms in full sun, but the subtle, comforting aroma of petals carried on a cool evening breeze. It was a scent that seemed to soothe the very soul, banishing fear and despair.

Admatha moved with quiet grace, his hands cradling a faint, golden light—the blacksmith's soul. There was no rush, no harshness in his actions. He held the soul as one might hold a fragile blossom, whispering words that the boy could not hear but somehow felt. There was kindness in his every movement, a deep and abiding respect for the life he was guiding.

The boy had watched, transfixed, as Admatha turned and walked into the shadows. The fragrance lingered long after the god had gone, a reminder of the moment that had etched itself into the boy's heart.

Now, as an old man standing at the edge of his own life, the memory returned with startling clarity. He smiled faintly, his voice barely a whisper. "He wasn't fearsome… he wasn't cruel. He was gentle. Even in death, there was beauty."

His final breath left him like a sigh, and for a moment, there was nothing. Then, he opened his eyes again.

Admatha stood before him, unchanged by the passing years. The pale skin, the golden-trimmed robe, the black veil, and the fragrance of flowers—it was all as he remembered. The god extended his hand, his smile as gentle as it had been that night long ago.

"Come," Admatha said, his voice as soft as petals falling. "It is time."

The man felt no fear, no sorrow. Only peace. He took Admatha's hand, the scent of flowers growing stronger, and together they walked into the shadows, where light and eternity awaited.