In every corner of the universe, dimension, or plane of existence, one of the most intriguing constants persists: the image people conjure of Death. Tall and bony—at least for vertebrate creatures—she dons a long black robe, her glowing eyes sparkling beneath the shadow of her hood.

  It’s a depiction as persistent as it is comical, for in truth, Raymond bore no resemblance to this image. Sure, he was a tad taller than average and perhaps carried a few extra pounds, but past a certain age, who doesn’t?

  Raymond was the kind of person you’d easily overlook in a crowd, drawing not a single glance. Light brown hair, faintly graying, cropped short for obvious practicality. His face bore the subtle marks of time—nascent wrinkles around his eyes and expression lines etched by years of experience.

  While Raymond undeniably wore an all-black outfit, it wasn’t by choice but by professional obligation. On the day of Creation—or “Kreation,” as the Empire’s inhabitants called it—Raymond had, of course, immediately complained.

  “It’s not me who makes the rules, and the regulation is crystal clear: all-black attire, mandatory,” Karoline, the head of human resources, had retorted with an infuriatingly smug smile that instantly ranked her among the most unpleasant people Raymond had ever met. “If you have complaints, feel free to take it up with the Creator.”

  Raymond dreamed of vibrant colors, floral shirts, a little green pair of shorts, and perhaps even an adorable straw hat to match his magnificent sandals. In short, Raymond aspired to transform into an ?ldavian tourist.

  Instead, he was saddled with a shirt as dark as Karoline’s soul. In place of his dream shorts, he was forced to wear plain, depressingly black trousers, paired with shoes that could only be described as “dad shoes.” He’d even taken care to flatten the heels for easier slipping on and off.

  As he did every morning, Raymond woke up, slid into his shoes with a smooth, light motion, and sat down for breakfast. People often underestimate the importance of a good breakfast, but a solid morning meal prevented that irresistible urge, around nine-thirty, to devour an entire pig.

  Then he glanced at the list of individuals who would, unfortunately, have the privilege of crossing his path today. Couldn’t they, just for one day, take care of themselves so he might, just once, enjoy a day off?

  Raymond checked his pocket for his keys and his small pocket watch. This watch, outwardly as ordinary as a cheese sandwich, was anything but. You see, it didn’t merely tell the time; it also displayed the age, year, month, season, day, and even his location. Incredibly handy for avoiding wrong turns, tardiness, or, worse, forgetting a sweater.

  At that moment, it read: 06:58, Friday, 26th of Thunderquell, 634 Imperial Age, Storm Season, Home.

  Time flew at a maddening pace, he thought, carefully locking his door. The Season of Infernal Heat was fast approaching. If only he could wear sandals.

  Taking a step forward, he instantly appeared in the Kapital, specifically the Alchemists’ Quarter. While most of the Kapital’s buildings were stone, the Alchemists’ Quarter favored wood. It was far easier to rebuild a wooden house after an explosive experiment than to fuss with stone, mortar, absent foremen, and construction delays.

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  And though alchemists were generally cleverer than the average citizen, they seemed to consistently forget that wood has an annoying habit of catching fire.

  As the sun barely rose, the glow of a house in flames lit the street with such intensity you’d think it was already noon.

  Raymond slipped through a group of alchemists engrossed in heated debate.

  “No, no, you’ve completely misunderstood the properties of astartic nitrate! It’s obvious the solution must be aqueous, or everything blows up, for heaven’s sake!” one exclaimed in exasperation.

  In the Breath—or the Expanse of the Departed, as some fortunate scholars who’d glimpsed this dimensional plane called it—no one sensed Raymond’s presence, except, of course, the dead, the dying, and, curiously enough, chickens.

  Facing the blaze that had once been a house, Raymond spotted a man staring at the flames licking the wooden walls with a horrified expression. This man, as ordinary as countless others, was distinguished by a faint blue glow.

  Gently, Raymond approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Yves Remors?” he asked.

  The man turned to Raymond.

  “I thought I was done for,” he said.

  “You are done for,” Raymond replied with compassion.

  Yves Remors stared at Raymond, his gaze a mix of confusion and dread.

  “Who are you?” he asked, voice trembling.

  Raymond offered a kind smile.

  “I’m Raymond, your… personal tour guide in the Breath. You could call it afterlife customer service, if you like.”

  “But why?” Yves asked.

  Ah, the great question. It came up with predictable regularity, yet the answer was always disarmingly simple.

  Raymond pulled a scrap of parchment from his pocket and read aloud.

  “In an attempt to clear cobwebs from his cellar, Yves Remors categorically refused to use a broom, opting instead to ignite a torch to burn them away. Result: a devastating fire that ravaged the first and second floors of his home.”

  Yves coughed, visibly embarrassed.

  “Well, it was supposed to be quicker,” he defended weakly.

  “Like using a catapult to swat a mosquito. You think you’re burning a cobweb, and you end up roasting the whole neighborhood.”

  Raymond began walking at a leisurely pace, inviting Yves to follow into this ethereal corner of the afterlife.

  “Haste, Yves, haste. It’s often the twin sister of disaster. Now, if you’ll come with me, there’s paperwork to sort, contracts to sign, and perhaps a cosmic repair or two for you to handle. And above all, remember: in the future, keep torches far away from your cleaning projects.”