Chapter Text
Philza dies far earlier than he expected.
Or moreso, earlier than he wanted.
At the ripe age of thirty-four Philza succumbs to his injuries, after tumbling down a mountain, onto a metal fence while on one of his hikes. It’s a lonely death, one of solitude in the frigid night surrounded by trees and a flowing river nearby. It’s almost calm.
However, before he can even begin to understand his own death, he is back at his house. Empty. Lights off. No one is actually home. He takes a seat at the dining room table with only the moonlight allowing him to see.
And he cries.
He cries about the people he hadn’t met yet, and the people he had left unforgiven. The conversations unspoken and the purchases he never made. He cries over the lady that made his coffee every morning. He should’ve tipped her more, he thinks.
He cries about his unfinished will and the bread on the counter that's sure to go mouldy. The unemptied bins that will start to stink-up the house. He cries about his parents, who were never meant to bury their own son, when he is found. He cries over his old friend Puffy from highschool that he never really got a chance to say goodbye to.
Finally, he cries over a life left incomplete.
What had he accomplished? Stuck in a dead-end job, writing meaningless report after report, with no fulfilment in sight. Where was the mark he was meant to leave on the world?
Philza always felt that he was destined for more, in a strange way. Like there was someone guiding him to the places he was meant to be. It brought him peace to know that in a farther field, Philza would make such an impact. Although he didn’t know what that impact would be.
He guesses he never will now.
After little consideration, he believes a tour is in order. Sniffling his nose and wiping his eyes. He doesn’t really know how much time he has left in this world, so he thinks it would be nice to reflect on this accumulation of his life thus far. Philza briefly wonders why he is still here in the first place, but moves towards the stairs regardless.
The third step didn’t creek as it always has. He pauses there. He figures that maybe he doesn’t quite have a physical form anymore, so there’s no weight to push onto the step. Continuing to climb higher, he hovers his hand above the wooden bannister, not daring to try and touch it. Philza always loved the wooden detailing in his house, it made him feel closer to the world around him. As if nature was always one step away. He chuffs to himself, considering that nature led to his demise in the end.
Reaching the top he decides to wander down to the end of the hallway, best to start there and work his way out, right?
In the furthest doorway to the right is his room, displayed for the world to see. A nicely sized queen bed that was made neatly this morning, sits in the middle of the room. He remembers making it before leaving for his hike. Philza shivers slightly.
It seems as though there is dust already collecting on the shelves containing pictures of his family, his workmates and some old pets through the years. Philza thinks even his allium flower has wilted a little in his death, but that might just be a young fool looking to see an impact of his death that hasn’t even been realised yet.
That is a funny question, when will someone realise he’s gone? Will it be his colleagues when he doesn’t arrive at work on Monday eight am sharp? Or maybe his family will try to reach out, only to receive radio silence. Perhaps in another world, the young lady at the coffee shop will remember the man who orders the same drink every day hasn’t been in for a while.
Taking one last look at this spotless room, he decides to move onwards. Coming back out to the dark hallway, the rest of the doors are shut. Three doors. He attempts to open the door directly opposing his own room, but his hand completely slips through the handle. Right. A ghost, he supposes. He begins to walk away, but remembers he could simply just go through the door.
The thought makes him a little sick. Best not to play with these types of things just at this moment.
Philza already knows what is in these rooms anyway. Two of them had beds in them, ready for any guests he had over to stay the night. Not that he had many, but it was nice just in case. The third is a room dedicated to his books, mostly containing older stories and classics. His miniature library, he calls it. He had always been quite proud of his collection. People around work would call him an old soul, although right now he had never felt so young. As if he really wasn’t done with the world just yet.
There was a part of him that thought he would have children to fill these rooms when he bought the house. Boys, he thinks. Rambunctious boys, that wrestle in the backyard and come home with faces smeared with dirt. Energetic boys that seem to have a million and one hobbies that forever change. Witty boys that keep him on his toes and make him fold in half with laughter. Boys that he could love.
And boys that knew their father loved them.
His boys.
He sheds a new tear, over a story that never was; that never will be. Forever unfinished like a soldier’s diary.
Philza concludes he’s seen what he needed upstairs, and travels back down to the lower floor. His mind is fuzzy as it drifts to different What if? statements, as if he would be able to answer them if questioned hard enough. Without any thought he heads back towards the dining area.
“Hello Philza.”
He nearly jumps out of his skin, or should he say corporal form, at this greeting. Philza looks at this feminine manifestation dressed in a flowing black dress that he finds never really ends, simply fading into nothingness. She has a veil that delicately cascades down her hair and disappears behind her back. Philza thinks he can see it sparkle slightly.
Confused, he replies stuttering “Uh… hello? How can you see me? In fact, how do you know who I am?”
The mysterious lady moves closer to Philza, he is tempted to back away but remains steady in the hopes that she would answer his questions.
“Lady Death, however my friends call me Kristen. I know all souls who are to enter my realm, dear Philza.”
Lady Death places a hand on Philza’s cheek, she is far taller than him as she leans down slightly. It almost makes Philza cry as her thumb trails against his soft skin, back and forth in a tender motion.
“You do not feel ready to enter, though, which is why you and I are here in your house.”
“To be completely honest I have been watching you for quite some time.” Philza takes a step back at this admission from Lady Death. He bumps into a chair behind him and begins to lean against it in fear.
Philza’s mind begins to race, wondering how to get revenge against a Goddess. A beautiful, powerful Goddess mind you.
“Did you do this? Get me killed?” He speaks, frightened to think that everything he loves was stripped away as a result of this Goddess.
“No, Gods no. I only knew your time was coming soon enough, and I felt a sort of… pull to come watch you. I am so very glad I did. I can’t quite force someone to join me, you know?”
He shakes his head slowly, and apologises for the assumption, “I’m sorry, that was quite rude of me.”
Lady Death laughs slightly. “I think you’re allowed to be a little rude, my dear Philza, you have just died.” Philza nods solemnly at her frank statement, deciding to take a seat at his dining table once more in an effort to calm down. Think more rationally.
Through the kitchen window, Philza can see the sun beginning to rise. It peeks through the dense forest that begins beyond his backyard fence. He had always enjoyed waking up early to admire the sunlight that danced around the morning fog. He’s happy he gets to see it one last time.
Philza almost forgets the lingering figure, who also gazes outside the window.
“I don’t often get to watch this site. Doesn’t quite happen in my area of the afterlife,” Philza can hear the smile in her voice. Lady Death looks over to him,
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
Philza watches as the light starts to fall upon her face, enhancing the iridescence of her skin as it shifts with the slightest of movements.
He knows that this may be the person who embodies death and loss, but looking at the woman before him, all he can see is life. Philza is enchanted by her.
“It is.” Philza replies.