I stood on one side of the road: a shadow within the night sky, a still figure of black and grey, a gentlemanly scholar at the mercy of winter wind and December rain. To my side, shedding pitiful glimmers of light unto the desolate streets below, a flickering lamp post stood tall and foreboding — a hearkening of what’s to come.

And though the orange glow somewhat warmed me, the ground saw no shadow.

From winding streets far and beyond came the screeching of rubber, and the cackling of crows; I made no attempt to intervene — it was fate, and one way or another, fate shall have its winnings. It would prove pointless to negotiate stakes.

The screeching drew closer, and so did the pitter-patter­ of naked feet against the cracked stone sidewalks.

8:14 — punctual as ever.

“Quite the weather we’re having.”

I turned to face her ever so slowly, a grim simper spread from ear to ear; there was no attempt to stifle the tears — rain alone had sufficed.

Lemon yellow stained her apron, while cuts and bruises tattooed themselves unto her every finger. A simple server, I assumed, or perhaps a somewhat careless chef. A ribbon of red and white around her head suggested the latter. “Yes, indeed, quite the weather.”

“Not many people around.”

“No, not at all.”

“But you’re here.”

“It would appear so.”

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“Waiting for someone?”

“I suppose.”

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

“Nothing wrong with a little quiet, no?”

Her feet hit the pavement with a splash; not once did she bother glancing over the shining red that burned through the night sky like a flame in the flood.

8:15 — just like clockwork.

I tried to warn her — many times. “The light’s red, darling.”

And still, she persisted — as many had. “Relax, there’s not a car for miles!”

Her bare feet slid against the road, twisted, and tripped. In the fleeting moments to come, she found herself lying face-down on the asphalt, dazed.

As for myself, I was nothing short of aggrieved. Had there been time — had I done more — perhaps there would be a sliver of chance.

But not today.

Today, fate hungers.

Bright, orange headlights set the night ablaze; a nearby icon of road-side safety waved to no avail.

8:16 — not a second late.

Pity.

The screeching of tires and roaring of engine came to an abrupt halt, replaced, almost completely, by a cacophony of shattered parts.

The girl, stumped as ever to find herself unharmed, rose gingerly to her feet. I was by her side in an instance, offering what little comfort I could. “You alright, miss?”

She had neither words nor expression — only bewilderment.

“The car. . .”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t. . .”

“Mhmm. . .”

“It just. . .”

“I saw.”

She stared long and hard, the pigmented freckles of her face set alight by the sidewalk lamp. “What's. . . What's your name, mister?”

The words tripped over one another.

“Death. Gentleman Death, at your service.”