Kate LSY

The clock in the living room inched forward.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Every second arrived like a guest and left like a ghost. The sound of their departure echoed down the empty hallway. 

She ignored it, mostly. But tonight, Time had a voice, and it rang extra loud. 

When her phone flipped to midnight, the digits blinked—jagged numbers softening into the smooth, perfect hush of zeros, like Time itself exhaled.

And then the ceiling began to bleed. 

Black specks appeared like pinpricks on the pale surface, spreading like mold.

She blinked. Goose bumps crawled up her arms, the hair on the back of her neck lifting. 

Alarming, really. 

But she held still. Her lips twitched upward, half-smirk, half-knowing, as her nervous system recalibrated around the familiar.

The specks pulsed outward, blooming like ink in water. The darkness thickened, curled, and fell like drifting snow. 

No. Not snow. 

She squinted. 

Feathers. 

Greasy black ones, charred at the edges, floated down in slow arcs. A few landed on her bed, dark against white sheets. One brushed her knee. Another grazed the edge of her nightstand, smelling faintly of singed air and old paper. 

She wrinkled her nose and sat straighter against the headboard, arms crossed now. Waiting. 

The wall rippled, and Death seeped through, moving like a haunted memory cloaked in shadows and heavy folds of fabric that curled in on itself.

Something looked different about them.

“Happy Birthday,” they said. Their voice was low, yet somehow, full. 

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that…a party hat?”

Something vaguely cone-shaped slumped sideways against their hood, damp and wilting. The crimson smears on it could be paint…or something else. 

That’s certainly one way to interpret festivity. 

Death tilted their head, and the hat tilted too. Their sleeves pressed together, like gloved fingers twiddling out of view.

She barked a snorting laugh and slapped a hand over her mouth as her shoulders shook. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. 

“You look like roadkill at a goth rave.”

“I tried,” Death said, sounding almost wounded. “I Googled it.”

She blinked.

“You—what?” She laughed again, brighter this time, the sound ringing like distant bells.  

Death raised an arm. A feather clung to their robe, catching the soft warm light by her nightstand. 

“They said…hats. And confetti.”

She glanced at her bed covered in featherfall, and tried not to smile, but failed. 

“Did you pluck them off the poor birds yourself?”

“Ravens,” Death corrected. “No harm. Really.” 

A beat of hesitation.

“They were already dead.” They added, almost sheepish. 

She stared. 

Feathers…from dead Ravens. The words echoed in her head. 

“You don’t like confetti,” they murmured, quieter now. 

She looked into the hollowness of their hood—the void where a face should be—and let out a throaty laugh.

“I do,” she said, voice gentler. “Thanks.” 

Death drifted closer, settling on the edge of the bed like fog clinging to a surface. The feather still balanced on their sleeve. 

“It’s also a gift,” they said. “If you ever need me…break it. I’ll come.” 

She reached out. Her fingers closed around the feather and brushed through the edge of their hem. The place she touched curled like smoke recoiling from wind. 

“Death on speed-dial?” Her brow quirked. “Sick.”

“You never call,” they muttered. 

“You’re not exactly on my emergency contact list.” 

Imagine the paperwork. Some poor nurse paging Death by accident. 

Death shrugged, raising their sleeve to where an ear might be. “If you ever get tired of waiting…call me.” 

She rolled her eyes, and huffed out a breath instead of responding. 

Death flicked a sleeve.

Snap. 

Something tight pinched her chin. 

She reached up, fingers tracing the shape of a cone. 

“Oh my god—”

A party hat. Crooked, slimy, and matching theirs. 

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I know,” Death replied, pleased.

“It better not be covered in blood.”

They stared at each other. Her, deadpan. Them, delighted.

“No cake?” she finally asked. 

Death hummed. “You wouldn’t want mine.”

“That’s…probably a fair point.” She nodded, glancing down at the confetti in her hand. 

“Happy Birthday, Darling,” Death said again, rising. 

“Another year closer,” she smiled up at them. “Thanks for remembering.”

“Of course I would. You’re my favourite aging mortal.”

“You probably say that to all the depressives.”

“Only the ones who survive long enough to have cake.” 

Death turned, and drifted toward the wall, vanishing like a sigh, leaving a swirl of shadow and smoke in their wake. Tendrils of darkness curled in the air, their voice lingered. 

“Make a wish before I change my mind, Darling.”

She looked down at the feather, and tilted her head. 

She doesn’t make one.

---

Death’s Darling Diary: A collection of quiet moments with a shadowy guest who shows up uninvited—
and, as it turns out, provides annoyingly good company.

Written by Varrow Yu.