Lily

Death could only bear to visit her once. She had only just learned to laugh–not giggle, the way the younger ones did, but laugh. Saliva would dribble sweetly down her face and her eyes would brighten only for her mother and she would laugh.

Death did not take Lily easy. Death did not take a form for it could not bear it. Rather, Death appeared to her suddenly as both mass and void. She faced him directly, laughing, her sweet sound piercing the veil and ringing cruelly throughout the inbetween. Death swept her from her short life gently, cradling her as the baby she was. Death passed her mother, her eyes themselves voids of despair, and Death was afraid. Death would take Lily and there would be no other. Her mother would not bear it.

Death found solace in this.

Death held Lily close, then released her to her eternity.

Death wept.

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