A Rare Breed

Death rang the doorbell, and waited patiently on the step. It was a lovely autumn night, and the stars were bright and numerous. Death liked stars.

The door opened wide, and an old man in a green cable-knit sweater was standing inside. He smiled widely at Death.

"Fancy seeing you here!" He pronounced cheerily.

Death smiled back, although since death is a skeleton in a hooded robe he didn't actually move at all. But the man knew that Death was smiling.

"You're awfully chipper for a dead man." Death rumbled sarcastically as he made his way inside. His voice carried through the house, vibrating every pane of glass coldly. The man took Death's scythe and hung it up on the wall by the coats before directing Death to the kitchen.

"Oh you know, it's just nice to be up and about again." He followed the black bulk of the Reaper into the kitchen. A small table was the centrepiece, with a bottle of wine, two glasses and a loaf of bread on it. "Been in bed too long. Everything hurt. Not the best. But now... I feel so much better!" He beamed, and indicated for Death to take a seat.

The Grim Reaper settled comfortably into the wooden chair. His titanic size somehow managing to nimbly fit in the human-sized furniture with ease.

"You do realize you are dead, yes?" Death raised what would have once been an eyebrow at his host.

"Oh yes. I hope you like Jackson Triggs, it was all I had in the cupboards apparently." The man began pouring out two glasses. He slid one over to the spectre at his table.

"Not going to try and weasel out of it with a game or some such silly thing?" Death took the glass, and swirled it to check the wine's legs. Not bad. He sniffed at it. He had had worse.

"Oh heavens no. I've seen plenty of this life, thank you. I know there's always more to see, always more to do... so much I've missed, so much I will miss..." He drifted off, his eyes hanging on a picture of his grandchildren, "But, there's so much more beyond. I hope." And he winked at Death, who smiled back, revealing nothing. "It's an adventure, isn't it? A risk. Who knows what I'll find when you take me... wherever you take me! Very exciting." He took a sip of his wine.

Death took a sip of his own, and put the glass on the table.

"You're a rare breed, Mister Edgwin." Death pronounced. "I do wish there were more of you." And there was a warmth in his words that clashed very harshly with the cold, deep, mystical nature of his speech.

"Squash players?" Edgwin joked.

"Explorers." Death intoned, sighing. He reached for the bread, and paused. "May I?"

"Please! And some for me, thanks."

And the two broke bread, and talked until it was time for Mr. Edgwin to leave. Or a little after time, if Death was honest with himself.