Stan heard his door’s assailant before the knocking; a shush-shush against the cement leading to his flat. He rose; walked; opened; stared. There, upon his stoop, was Death himself.
“Er,” Stan managed. What does one say to Death?
In what should have been an anticipated reaction, Stan’s guest only stared.
Stan scuffed a foot against his carpet. He bit his lip. Swung his arms.
Death still stared.
“So….” Stan tried. “May I help you?”
A nod. Silence.
Stan hadn’t thought Death would be so awkward. *Ahem* “How so?”
Impossible as it seemed; Stan knew, somehow, that his somber companion frowned in thought. Death reached a skeletal hand from draping cloak-sleeve to internal robe and withdrew a scrap of parchment. Hand and paper extended toward Stan.
Stan received the paper; declined the hand. Stan Dubrough, 17:00, he read. His palms felt chill and his body followed right after. Both…
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