The Reaper. Guardian of thresholds, who walks unseen, but carries the weight of every ending. His form was vague, a ripple against the gray sky, but she felt a warmth as if the sun had broken through the clouds just for her.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice low and rough as thunder rolling over distant hills.

"I'm already here," she replied, eyes steady. "I can't unsee you. And I don't want to."

He looked down, the cloak around him fluttering like black smoke caught in a breeze. "This world is not for you."

She smiled softly, a wistful curve of lips. "And yet, I walk it every day. Maybe I'm not meant for this world. Maybe I'm meant for the one between."

He took a hesitant step closer, so close she could see the faint shimmer at the edges of his form, the way his shadow softened and flickered like a dying flame.

"I have lived centuries alone," he said. "Always watching. Always waiting."

"And hoping," she added gently.

He said nothing. Only the rain, steady and soft, answered.

What could Eternity say to a flickering flame?

As the city slept, the Reaper returned to his hidden mountain home, a place woven from moonlight and stone, veiled from mortal eyes by ancient magic. Eyes heavy with centuries of loneliness. There, under a sky crowded with stars, he stared down at the glowing city below, and for the first time in centuries, he felt something new stirring inside. Hope