Work Text:
⚠️ Trigger Warning
Themes of end of life, grief, and illness.
A gentle but emotionally intense story.
🎶 i saw you in my dream (acoustic)
🌑
Balance was nothing but a matter of choice.
That was what the Grand Celestial-Infernal Council liked to repeat, each time they needed to hide a mistake behind a law, or a fear behind a vow.
Yet this time, imbalance had a face: Arhoung.
Daughter of Satan and the Archangel Yoko — neither angel nor demon; too pure for Hell, too tainted for Heaven.
The Council decreed:
“Since she was born between worlds, let her guard their border.”
Thus she became a young reaper — guardian of the threshold, charged with guiding hesitant souls to their final door.
A mission of balance, they said.
A punishment, she thought.
For the dead do not cry. The dead do not speak.
And yet, Arhoung resembled none of the reapers before her.
Where others merely opened the way, she listened.
Where others judged, she understood.
Demonic souls feared her — for under her gaze, their shadows burned.
But the pure ones followed her willingly: her pale skin, her asymmetrical wings — black and white both — shone like a promise.
And so she walked, gentle and unchanging, between the living and the dead.
Until the day when, among the pale and resigned faces, one of them lifted its eyes to her.
And Death, for the very first time, heard her own heart beat.
🌒
Fate, however, had not waited for her to understand.
A few days later, the Scroll of Passage opened on its own, revealing a new inscription — a name drawn in golden ink that shimmered like the flutter of a wing.
Pam Tarradee.
Time limit: seven days.
Arhoung frowned.
Usually, souls faded by themselves; she only had to welcome them on the Bridge and lead them to the Gate.
But this time, the order was clear: “Descend. Direct reap.”
A task rarely given to a young reaper.
Especially to her.
She sighed and closed the scroll with a sharp snap.
Her reflection in the celestial mirror returned a weary face — almost human.
— Seven days, she whispered. Too little… or far too much.
She turned away and grabbed her favorite jacket — a human garment, worn and creased, far preferable to the diaphanous robes of Heaven.
Heavenly fabrics made her feel like a ghost.
At least earthly cloth had a scent, a texture, a weight.
Her fingers brushed the chain of her miniature scythe, hidden in the form of a pendant — a reminder of what she was, and of what she had never wanted to become.
Then she crossed the veil.
Earth greeted her with a cold, sterile breath.
A hospital. Nothing more ordinary.
Sweetened disinfectant, forgotten coffee, the buzz of neon lights. The linoleum clung to her soles. Air-conditioning hummed too loudly near the nurses’ station.
Arhoung walked forward, unseen.
Humans passed through her without noticing.
Their warmth brushed her sometimes, fleeting, like a memory she had never owned.
She did not judge them.
She simply watched them live — talking on their phones, crying quietly in corridors, laughing softly just to forget.
An invisible wingbeat lifted her hair.
Her gaze drifted toward Room 307.
A room without light.
A faint breath, barely there.
And on the bed — Pam Tarradee.
A young woman asleep beneath a sheet too large for her, a bandage tight around her head, a transparent tube running down her arm.
Arhoung stood motionless.
The monitor’s numbers pulsed to the rhythm of a fragile heart — a sound so human it echoed within her own chest.
She knew what she had to do.
She had seven days.
In the stillness of the room, the scent of dried flowers, the golden glow of a painting, and that face held her fast.
Arhoung drew a slow breath.
Her invisible wings folded against her back.
— It’s you, she murmured, not knowing why the words escaped her.
The young woman turned her head in her sleep.
Her lips moved faintly, and a whisper floated between the two worlds:
— …you’re here?
Arhoung’s heart stopped for a fraction of a second.
Impossible.
No one was supposed to hear her.
Then Pam’s eyelids fluttered.
Her eyes opened — clear, a little veiled, but fixed on her all the same.
A suspended silence. Pam blinked, swallowed, paled, then drew in a sharp breath:
— …It’s you.
She wet her lips, hesitated.
— I’ve seen you… in my dreams.
She pushed herself up with effort, pulling the sheet to sit on the edge of the bed.
Even sitting, she almost reached Arhoung’s height.
The contrast between the tiny reaper and this human with a burning gaze felt unreal.
Arhoung froze, trying to steady herself.
— You… you shouldn’t be able to see me.
— And yet I do, Pam replied, her voice rough.
Silence fell.
The neon lights in the corridor hummed, uncertain.
At last Arhoung stammered:
— I… I’m a reaper. You shouldn’t be able to see or hear me.
Pam tilted her head slightly, a tired smile tugging at her lips.
— I knew it.
— Knew what?
— That Death could be that small.
She pressed her thumb against her nail.
— Sorry… it just slipped out.
The reaper’s heart skipped a beat.
Her wings quivered, almost visible in the light.
For the first time, someone seemed to truly see her.
Arhoung stepped back, panicked.
No one had ever managed to see her — not the dying, not the spirits, not even the guardian angels who wandered the halls of life.
This human couldn’t… shouldn’t.
She lifted her hand, trying to dissolve her aura, to vanish as she always did.
Nothing.
The world didn’t blur.
Time didn’t freeze.
The monitor kept beeping.
And Pam kept looking at her, wide-eyed.
— No, whispered Arhoung. That’s impossible…
Pam gave a small shrug, a pale smile touching her mouth.
— Impossible is what my doctor says every morning. And yet, I’m still here.
Arhoung clenched her fists, nervous.
A bluish light rippled over her fingers but scattered instantly.
— You don’t understand. If I stay here, the balance breaks.
— Balance of what? Pam asked, tilting her head curiously.
— Of everything.
Pam stared at her for a long moment, then let out a soft, fragile laugh.
— Then let’s call it my dying privilege, shall we?
— It’s not funny, Arhoung protested, her wings trembling.
— I haven’t laughed in weeks. Let me have this one.
Silence fell again, gentle as a blanket.
Arhoung looked away.
Humans weren’t supposed to affect her like this.
Their voices, their smiles, their heartbeats were meant to slide off her like rain off marble.
But this girl… no.
Pam slowly lowered her head.
— So you’re the reaper? The one who came for me?
Arhoung didn’t answer.
The words stuck in her throat.
She wished she could lie, say she was just passing by.
But reapers couldn’t lie — they bore not the weight of illusion, only that of truth.
— Yes, she whispered at last. In seven days.
Pam remained silent for a moment.
Her gaze drifted to the window, where dawn began to pale the clouds.
Then she nodded slowly.
— Seven days, then. That gives you time to talk to me a little.
Arhoung blinked, confused.
— T-talk to you?
Pam nodded again.
— Yes. I’m all alone here. My parents are in denial, you know?
Her voice barely trembled.
— I’ve already written everything down… letters, for when I’m gone.
A silence settled — heavy, yet strangely soothing.
The reaper blinked, unable to speak.
She had never heard a soul speak of its own death with such calm.
Pam’s smile wavered, tired yet almost playful.
— And besides, between us… I’ve always been the kind to tame what I fear.
A shiver of energy ran through the room, like a breath from elsewhere.
The lights flickered one last time before steadying.
Arhoung took a step back, torn between leaving and staying.
But Pam’s words echoed in her head: “Seven days, then.”
And for the first time since her appointment, the reaper felt the urge to disobey.
Pam, meanwhile, stood slowly.
Her body trembled from the effort, her legs quivered, yet she didn’t fall.
The hospital gown slipped from her shoulder, revealing skin too pale for the living — and yet, so achingly beautiful.
Arhoung froze.
That kind of beauty was not celestial — it came from courage, from silence, from the light one refuses to let die.
Pam took an unsteady step forward, her breath shallow, and reached out a trembling hand.
Her fingers quivered, but her gaze did not waver.
— So… what’s your name?
Arhoung hesitated.
Her lips moved before she realized.
— Arhoung.
A gentle smile brushed Pam’s mouth.
She raised her pinky, childlike and solemn all at once.
— Then, Arhoung… be my friend for seven days.
Morning rose over the hospital like a grey sigh.
A nurse cracked the door open, let in a sliver of light, and placed a steaming tray on the table. Pam was asleep.
Arhoung, sitting on the chair, watched the vapor rise from the soup bowl until it disappeared.
Every thread of warmth reminded her that here, everything eventually faded.
She had never known hunger — but for the first time, she understood its beauty: the beauty of things one must lose.
Only then did she look at that finger still reaching toward her — so fragile, so human.
Inside her chest, a new beat stirred — a sound she had never heard before.
Gently, almost unwillingly, she extended her own hand.
Her fingers of shadow and light twined around Pam’s pinky.
A tiny pact.
A promise of friendship between life and death.
And in the silence of Room 307, the invisible hourglass of fate began to flow again, grain by grain.
🌓
Night had fallen over the hospital.
Silence stretched through it like a heavy blanket, broken only by the steady beeping of monitors.
In Room 307, the curtains filtered the orange glow of the streetlights, painting wavering shadows on the wall.
Pam sat up slowly, hair tousled.
She knew she would come.
And when the cool breath of air slipped into the room, she smiled without even opening her eyes.
— I knew you’d come back, she murmured.
Arhoung hesitated to reply.
Words often caught in her throat — she had never spoken to a human for more than a moment.
But Pam’s voice, soft and calm, seemed to create a space where even Death could breathe.
— I don’t often talk to humans, she said at last.
— Then I’m your exception, Pam replied with a smile.
She patted the empty space on the bed beside her.
Arhoung sat, cautious, the fabric of her jacket barely brushing the sheet.
Pam rested her chin on her knees, drawn close to her chest.
— My parents came yesterday, she said softly. They pretended to be fine. You should have seen them — two statues of marble.
— They don’t know how to help you.
— No. And I don’t know how to talk to them anymore.
Silence settled.
Only the distant sounds of the hospital marked time.
Then, in a lighter tone, Pam asked:
— And you? Do you have parents?
Arhoung looked at her, surprised.
Few souls dared to question her like that.
— Yes. My mother is… Satan.
Pam blinked.
— Just that, huh. And your father?
— I don’t have one. My other mother is an Archangel.
Pam stared at her, dumbfounded.
— But… aren’t they not supposed to… I mean, isn’t that forbidden?
Arhoung allowed herself a faint smile, amused by the human reaction.
— It is. My mother likes to say she almost got beheaded by the highest of Archangels. And that she risked her soul to save hers.
A muffled laugh escaped Pam’s hand.
— Alright. Family dinners must be hell.
Arhoung let out a quiet breath of amusement.
It was the first time she had ever laughed at something a human said.
— They’ve loved each other for millennia, she murmured. Against everything.
— That’s beautiful, whispered Pam.
But her gaze suddenly dimmed.
She turned her head toward the window.
— I just have a little sister. She thinks I’ll come home soon. She drew me a picture — a huge sun.
Her voice broke ever so slightly on the last word.
Arhoung wanted to speak, to offer something — but no words came.
So she simply stayed there — present, silent.
🌓
The next day, a ray of sunlight filtered between the curtains.
She had pushed the bed a few centimeters — the wheels had squeaked — just to feel the warmth on her forearm.
Arhoung, perched on the window ledge, watched dust float through the golden beam.
— You know, said Pam with a smile, people forget that light only exists because dust makes it visible.
— Like you, answered Arhoung without thinking.
Pam blushed faintly, and silence returned — peaceful, almost tangible.
Later, as the light waned, Pam took a deep breath and smiled again.
— The doctor told my parents I’m talking to myself. He thinks I made your voice up.
She leaned forward, reaching out to touch Arhoung’s cheek.
Her fingers brushed lightly through her aura, raising a shiver of blue light.
— But I know you’re real, she whispered.
Her eyes held onto the reaper’s.
— Just… not of this world.
Arhoung’s heart stumbled.
That single touch was like a storm beneath her skin.
Pam hesitated, then asked in a low voice:
— Can I ask you something?
— Yes.
— Why you? Why choose to be… a reaper?
Arhoung fell silent for a long time.
Her hands tightened on the sheet; her gaze drifted toward the window, where the city lights flickered like trapped souls.
— It wasn’t a choice. It’s… balance.
— Between what and what?
Arhoung lowered her eyes.
— Between what must go… and what wants to stay.
Pam nodded slowly.
— Then you’re like me, she whispered.
— How so?
— Stuck between two worlds.
🌔
In the cafeteria, someone spilled coffee.
The sound never reached Room 307.
There, everything seemed outside of time.
Pam slept, a book open on her lap.
Arhoung watched the movement of her eyelashes, the slow breath, the fingers that sometimes searched for her hand without knowing it.
The hourglass of the world kept running elsewhere. Here, the grains hesitated to fall.
A soft silence, almost sacred, settled between them.
And for a moment, neither life nor death seemed to matter.
Night slipped through the crack of the curtains like a gentle breeze undoing all pretense.
The hourglass of hours trickled down without a sound; for Pam, it was all that truly passed — fine sand she could feel beneath her skin, not as pain, but as a caress.
Arhoung had dozed off by the edge of the mattress, her forehead resting on her crossed arms, jacket pulled up to her chin.
With every breath Pam took, she thought she felt a faint quiver in the air, as if the young woman’s soul blinked just to stay a little longer.
— Are you asleep? whispered Pam.
— No, answered Arhoung without moving. I’m listening.
A silence. The monitors beat low, steady.
— I… I’ve never told anyone this, murmured Pam.
Arhoung lifted her head.
— Then tell me.
Pam smiled, a smile that held both childhood and exhaustion.
— I’ve never kissed anyone.
The reaper felt the steps give way beneath her, like an unseen drop in a staircase she thought she knew.
— Never?
— Never, Pam repeated. I always thought I had time…
Arhoung straightened, hands folded neatly on her knees. The window light rimmed her hair with a pale edge.
— Do you want me to…?
Pam’s breath brushed hers. She nodded very slowly.
— Yes. But… here. No magic. Slowly.
Arhoung nodded. She reached out first — palm open, transparent with shyness — and placed it on Pam’s cheek.
The warmth startled her. It was the first time life had ever weighed this way in her hand.
— If I do something you don’t like, tell me to stop, she said softly.
— Alright.
Arhoung pressed a kiss to her forehead — a reversed blessing.
Then another, to her temple, where patience beats.
Pam closed her eyes.
— There, she whispered.
Their lips met — timid at first, almost clumsy.
A brush that asked for nothing but an answer.
Pam answered — slightly off-center, with that little laugh of those who dare for the first time — and the moment unfolded like a late-blooming flower.
There was no promise, no vow — only this very slow kiss where two beings learn to breathe together.
Magic kept its distance, well-behaved — yet around them, the air trembled like glass touched by a fingertip.
When they parted, Pam kept her eyes closed for one more second, a nearly invisible smile at the corner of her lips.
— Does it count? she asked.
— It counts, said Arhoung. For me, it counts twice.
— Twice?
— Once for you. And once for what I never thought I could feel.
Pam reopened her eyes, softer, brighter than the day before.
She brushed the collar of Arhoung’s jacket, playing with a worn stitch.
— Stay a while. I didn’t leave the bed today.
— I know, said Arhoung. I watched you dream the world into something better.
Pam laughed quietly, then sank into her pillow.
The reaper stayed, unmoving, her hand still on her cheek — a sentinel on the border of a country she was just learning to name.
Outside, night held firm.
Inside, two breaths aligned.
And somewhere between Heaven and Hell, the hourglass allowed itself to lose a grain.
🌕
The next morning, Pam woke later than usual.
Light barely filtered through the blinds, drawing pale stripes on the sheet.
On the table sat an untouched tray: soup gone cold, a piece of bread half-crumbling.
Arhoung watched from the window ledge, knees drawn to her chest.
Pam sat up slowly, pencil in hand.
She had been writing since dawn, bent over a hospital notebook filled with short lines and crossed-out phrases.
— What are you doing? asked Arhoung.
— I’m writing to you.
The reaper blinked.
— Why?
— So I won’t forget you, if I wake up somewhere else.
She tore the page out, folded it carefully, and slipped it beneath her pillow.
— You’ll find it, if you come back after me.
Arhoung didn’t answer.
She came closer, laid a light hand on the sheet.
— Do you want me to read to you?
— No, whispered Pam. Just stay until the sun goes down.
They stayed like that, wordless.
Evening light brushed their faces, then slowly faded.
When silence finally fell for good, Arhoung thought she heard a single grain slide inside the world’s hourglass.
🌗
Arhoung didn’t understand right away.
Time suddenly felt different — denser, heavier, as if every heartbeat took root in her chest.
The world’s hourglass, the one she carried inside since birth, had begun to flow again… but this time, the grains were falling upward.
Pam lay still, staring at the ceiling without seeing it.
Her eyes were open, but already far away.
A strange peace rested on her face — the kind that comes just before the end.
A shiver ran down Arhoung’s spine.
She understood without being told.
She rose slowly.
Her wings unfolded with a sound barely more than a sigh.
With a tender motion, she smoothed the sheet. The ribbon of a monitor tugged at her arm; Arhoung peeled it gently away, leaving no trace.
The silence, brutal at first, soon became soothing.
She slipped her arms beneath the light body of the young woman.
Pam stirred faintly, one arm seeking to loop around her neck.
— You’re strong… little reaper, she murmured, voice barely more than a breath.
Arhoung didn’t answer.
She didn’t laugh, didn’t speak.
A warm liquid slid from the corner of her eyes, and she didn’t understand.
— What… is this? she whispered.
Her fingers touched her damp cheek.
— Is this… Hell?
But Pam smiled faintly, as if she had heard.
Arhoung tightened her embrace and spread her wings.
They cut through the air with a sound like torn silk.
The world dissolved beneath their feet.
They rose, slowly, through the ceiling, the walls, the gray morning sky.
Pam, against her, was so light she felt like a thought.
— Look, whispered Arhoung, her voice trembling.
Pam’s eyes fluttered open.
The world below looked like a sea of mist, where the city lights shimmered like paper lanterns.
— It’s beautiful, breathed Pam.
— Yes.
— Where are we going?
— Wherever you wish.
The wind thinned around them, soft as a lullaby.
Pam lifted her hand one last time, as if to catch a star.
Then she let her fingers fall, slowly, against Arhoung’s neck.
— Thank you, she said, barely audible.
Arhoung felt the body grow lighter still, until it weighed nothing at all.
Her arms closed on emptiness.
She hovered there, wings open in the pale light, heart pierced by a silence beyond name.
— Rest now, she murmured.
Her voice vanished into the wind.
And for the first time since the dawn of creation, Death wept.
🌘
When she returned, the Hall of Passage was deserted.
Her scythe, leaning against the wall, gleamed faintly in the dimness.
Arhoung took one step, then another — and everything she’d been holding back finally broke.
The breath of her magic split the air like a wave.
The stained-glass windows of the celestial sanctuary shattered into shards of color.
Scrolls burst into flight, angel feathers fell in slow rain.
She didn’t scream.
Only her wings shook, trembling with a force she could no longer contain.
Rage had no words — only the naked need to erase, from this unjust world, the fate of souls too pure.
At that very moment, far below, in the depths of Hell, Faye lifted her head.
Her gaze darkened, crossed by an ancient worry.
— My Bloody is hurting, she whispered.
Yoko, already standing, was about to cross the gates of Heaven, but Faye placed a steady hand on her arm.
— No. Let her be. She’s grown now.
— She’s in pain, murmured Yoko.
— Yes, said Faye softly. It’s the first time she’s truly in love.
Above, the noise subsided.
When silence returned, all around Arhoung was nothing but a field of shattered glass and golden dust.
She fell to her knees.
Under her fingers, a shard still reflected Pam’s face — blurred, trembling, yet alive within her memory.
Only then did she rise, wipe her tears, and head toward the Council.
🌑
When the doors of the Celestial-Infernal Council opened, a cathedral silence filled the hall.
Hundreds of folded wings trembled in the white light.
Arhoung entered, head high, her steps heavy with a grief no immortal had ever carried.
Her heart beat too fast.
Her hands still trembled from broken glass.
And when she finally lifted her eyes toward the Elders, the words burst out before she could stop them.
— What was that?!
Her voice cracked through the hall — raw, fractured, edged with fire.
Angels flinched, demons froze.
Never had a reaper raised her voice here.
— You sent me to reap, not to feel, she said, her tone shaking.
You knew, didn’t you? That she would see me. That she would speak to me. That she would change me.
A murmur rippled through the celestial ranks.
Arhoung closed her eyes, drew a breath, then spoke again, lower:
— I will no longer be your instrument.
I am the daughter of fire and light.
And now… I know what that means.
Silence fell.
A thick, living silence.
Then, slowly, the oldest of the Elders rose.
His eyes, ancient as the first constellations, rested on her.
— You were never meant to reap, Arhoung.
You were meant to find.
She frowned.
— Find?
The Elder nodded slowly.
— Your twin soul. The one entrusted to you at the beginning. You were meant to recognize each other — even at the edge of the end.
A golden light passed through the air — soft, warm, familiar.
Arhoung felt her heart stir.
Her hand brushed the torn seam of her jacket; a single white silk thread was missing, pulled free the night before her descent.
She hadn’t noticed.
But now, she understood.
Elsewhere, in a white room flooded with sunlight, Pam opened her eyes.
The monitor was silent.
Doctors would speak of a miracle.
She would not.
In her palm lay a tiny blue grain of sand, glowing faintly, warm as a dried tear.
Around it, coiled an iridescent silver thread — almost invisible, like a glint of wing.
She brought it to her heart.
A lock of hair slid across her forehead; slowly, she brushed it back, her gaze already far away.
Then she whispered, without knowing why:
— See you soon, little reaper.
🖤
END