The smell of dust, the soft tick of a clock, and a small folder with my name clearly printed in black ink on the front of it. These are the first things I notice, not the first thing I see. That would be the man sitting behind the desk, one of his hands rested on the folder, the other lightly tracing the rim of a teacup, almost as if he didn't know I was there. He stared absentmindedly at a small photo facing him.

“Excuse me,” I said softly, though it wasn't by choice. My voice was hoarse, and my throat seemed to burn and rip with every word.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” he muttered softly under his breath. He didn't look up, but he did allow his hand to trace the folder and open it. “That throat isn't meant for speaking just yet.”

“Where…” I weakly squeaked out through the pain.

“Where?” He asked softly before turning up to me with a wild, Cheshire-like white smile and eyes like a starless sky. “Where else but my office?”

I gave him a confused look, and he laughed softly to himself. “Maybe I should start from the beginning. You, Michelle Rogers, are dead.” He tossed a small obituary card over to me.

“Usually in these cases, your soul would, of course, be separated and brought to its respective afterlives before rebirth, but you are not a usual case, I'm afraid,” he answered casually.

“W-what?” I asked hoarsely.

“Yes, you are what we—well, I call a witch. You were born with inherent magical potential, and though you have never made use of it, it complicates the process… your soul can't be separated, therefore you are not permitted to your afterlife.”

He continued, “In the past we—well, I would dispose of such souls.” He frowned slightly at the idea. “But lucky for you, we've found a new solution for that issue. Truly, you are blessed to be born within this millennium.” He clapped his hands together, causing me to jump back slightly and looked down.

I ran my hand over the chair's surface, the smooth leather contrasting sharply with the rough wooden sides, I had doubts.

To be completely honest at this point it was easier to assume he was lying, a crazy man in costume playing a cruel joke. Or this was a dream cooked up from a night of too many movies. It didn't feel impossible; the man even looked like Snape with his long slicked-down black hair and matching suit.

But something about it felt real, whether it was the small laminated card in front of me, the ripping in my throat, or even the distinctive smell of dust and books that I was sure I wasn't creative enough to conjure.

Why was it so easy to accept death? And why was he smiling so broadly at the idea?

I finally looked back up at him. “What... now?” I asked as firmly as I could.

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“Well, you have the wonderful opportunity to work for me,” he said cheerfully.

“Work?” I asked, folding my arms.

He laughed lightly. “Yes, you will be given a temporary existence until your magic is fully depleted and the freedom to indulge in your reckless earthly desires, and all I ask is that you complete small tasks for me in the meantime. Really an amazing opportunity.”

“What are the tasks?” I managed to force out in a hiss, tasting blood in my mouth.

“Nothing major,” he waved his hands dismissively. “You see, I am…” he paused slightly before continuing. “Who I am.” He chuckled slightly as if he made a joke.

“And that has left me in charge of many things, two of which being both life and death, as well as a few other things…” He looked away with a small frown.

“Though I am a being of many talents, I found it's far more efficient to leave the tasks revolving around death to your kind. I deplore dirty work and you humans are so good at causing death, I am sure you understand.” He gave me a knowing look. 

“Wh-” I started to talk and he cut me off 

“Think of it as volunteering, an adventure!” He laughed slightly and said under his breath, “payment for your sins, I am sure you have a few to repay.” His hand tapped my folder with his nails, they were long, squared and clean. Perfectly manicured were an understatement. They looked like porcelain or white glass.

I didn't trust him but I also had a strong feeling I had no real option.

“And if I say no…” I asked slowly, coughing slightly at the end.

He frowned. “You are free to do that, though I don't recommend that option. Nonexistence isn't a pleasant thing; consciousness never truly fades, and your essence just becomes a curse.” He stared down at me, his eyes filled with inky darkness. “It's truly horrid business.”

I sat there for a while focusing on the tick of the clock then I let my eyes drift, the collection of books with titles written in gold on their spines.

Ifeoma Bankole

Zaharinka Ivanoff

Jie Su Zhang

Peyton Dale?

Were they names? 

Part of me wanted to lean over and pick up the books, see why their names were in gold and their lives in books while I was only given a folder.

Why was I more curious than scared and why was I excited to learn more?

I looked back up and the man was once again looking longingly at the photo. His face was plain and calm, it was hard to even imagine him smiling widely. And his black eyes were almost completely blocked by his long fan-like eyelashes.

I wish I had thoughts in my head, that I weighed the odds and thought about the options. how would I know if an eternity in emptiness would be better than leaving my soul in his hands?

How was I meant to question the deal given to me by a friendly face in an unfamiliar situation? 

Life was confusing and death…. Death was unknown.

I feared that uncertainty and like a child I clung to the familiar. A man behind a table who didn't promise me good or bad. Just A chance to escape oblivion. 

How did I get here?

And why couldn't I run away?

I took a deep breath, I could feel the blood slowly slide down my throat. I didn't have a choice; I had to answer.

“Fine.”