Days remaining: 1Bank Account: ₹0
The clock on the wall was the loudest thing in the universe. Tick... Tick... Tick.
Every second that passed was a second Elian would never get back. He lay in his bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, his chest tight. The room felt like a waiting room. The kind where you wait for bad news.
"Stop thinking so loud," Lyra whispered. "I can hear your brain buzzing."
Elian turned his head. Lyra was floating cross-legged in the air above his desk, glowing faintly in the dark. She was flipping through his comic books, but she wasn't really reading. She looked tired, too. Her edges seemed a little blurry, like a photo losing focus.
"I can't sleep," Elian whispered. "If I sleep... it'll be morning. And morning is..."
"The end," Lyra finished for him. She didn't sugarcoat it. She never did.
Elian pulled the blanket up to his chin, feeling like a child again. "Lyra?"
"Hmm?"
"What happens... after?" Elian asked, his voice trembling. "Do you just... drop me off at the gate and leave? Do I have to walk in alone?"
Lyra closed the comic book. She drifted down until she was hovering right next to his bed, her face level with his.
"I don't drop you off," she said gently. "I walk you all the way in. I hold your hand until you're safe on the other side. You won't be alone for a single second. I promise."
Elian let out a shaky breath. "Okay. That's... good."
He looked at her, the ancient eyes in the teenage face. Suddenly, a cold thought hit him. "You're really good at that speech," Elian said quietly.
Lyra blinked. "What?"
"That speech. 'I'll hold your hand.' 'You won't be alone.' You say it so perfectly." Elian felt a sharp, hot stone in his stomach. "How many times have you said that before? To other people?"
Lyra hesitated. She looked away, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. "Many times, Elian. It's my job."
"How many?" Elian pushed. "Hundreds? Thousands?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters to me!" Elian sat up, the blanket falling away. The fear of death was suddenly mixed with something uglier. Jealousy. "I've spent every second of the last month with you. You're the only person who really knows me. But to you... I'm just a file number, aren't I? Just another Tuesday."
Lyra frowned, floating a little higher. "Elian, that's not-"
"Tell me about them," Elian interrupted, his voice bitter. "The others. The ones before me. Were they better? Did they die braver?"
Lyra looked at him, surprised by the anger in his voice. She softened. "There was an old man," she said quietly, a faint smile touching her lips. "He was ninety. He spent his last night telling me knock-knock jokes. He wanted to make Death laugh."
"And did you?" Elian asked sharply.
"I did," Lyra admitted. "He was charming."
"Who else?"
"There was a soldier," Lyra's voice grew distant, fond. "He was so scared. He held onto his rifle like a teddy bear. He asked me to sing to him until he fell asleep. He had a beautiful soul. Very bright."
Elian looked down at his hands. He felt small. He felt replaceable. "See?" he whispered. "Funny old men. Brave soldiers. And then there's me. The coward who climbed a roof and ran away. The guy who needed a babysitter for thirty days."
He turned away from her, facing the wall. "I bet you'll forget my name by next week. You'll just move on to the next file. The next 'job'."
The silence stretched out. The clock ticked. Then, the mattress dipped.
Elian froze. Lyra wasn't floating. She was sitting on the edge of his bed. She had made herself heavy enough to be felt.
"Turn around, you idiot," she said. Her voice wasn't floaty or magical. It was grounded.
Elian turned slowly. Lyra was looking at him with an intensity that burned.
"You think you're just a job?" she asked.
"Aren't I?"
"The old man," Lyra said. "He told me jokes because he wanted to distract himself. He used me as an audience." "The soldier," she continued. "He asked me to sing because he wanted comfort. He used me as a mother."
She reached out. Her cold, transparent hand hovered over his cheek.
"They all bargained with me, Elian. They screamed at me. They prayed to me. They treated me like a Monster or an Angel or a Tool."
She leaned in closer, her dark eyes locking onto his.
"You are the only one who made me coffee."
Elian blinked, his jealousy wavering. "It... it was instant coffee. It was terrible."
"You put sugar in it," she whispered fiercely. "You asked me if I liked it. You asked me what I wanted to put on the bucket list. You took me bungee jumping because I wanted to feel the wind."
She placed her hand on his chest, right over his beating heart. The cold seeped through his shirt, but it didn't feel scary. It felt like an anchor.
"You didn't treat me like Death, Elian. You treated me like Lyra. You saw me."
Elian felt the hot tears prick his eyes again, but the bitterness was gone. "I just... I don't want to be forgotten," he whispered. "I don't want to be just another number in your book."
"Impossible," Lyra said. She smiled, and this time, it reached her eyes. "You're my favorite. And Reapers have perfect memories."
Elian managed a weak, watery laugh. "Even the dancing chicken suit?"
"Especially the chicken suit," she grinned. "I'm going to tell the other Reapers about that for centuries."
The tension broke. Elian let out a long exhale, his shoulders dropping. He lay back down, feeling exhausted but lighter. The jealousy had burned off, leaving only a quiet, aching closeness.
"Okay," Elian whispered. "Okay."
"Now sleep," Lyra commanded softly, resuming her float above him. "You need energy for the big exit."
Elian closed his eyes. The fear was still there, lurking at the edges, but Lyra's glow pushed it back. He reached his hand up into the air. "Stay?" he mumbled.
Lyra didn't pull away. She lowered her hand until her ghostly fingers interlaced with his warm ones. She couldn't hold him, not really, but she stayed right there in the space between his fingers.
"I'm not going anywhere," Lyra promised. "I'm right here."
Elian drifted off to sleep, holding the hand of the girl who had come to kill him, finally understanding that she was the only reason he had ever really lived.