The Living Don’t Believe in Death

By morning, I was shaking. I’d spent the night in my car, parked outside an all-night diner, headlights cutting through mist that refused to fade. Every time I blinked, I saw him — silver eyes, dark coat, voice echoing in my bones.

When the sun rose, I drove straight to the one person I thought could help.

Father Gabriel.

He’d known me since I was a child, back when my mother still made me go to church. He was kind, steady, the kind of man who believed in good and evil as if they were as real as breath. If anyone could understand what was happening, it was him.

The church looked smaller than I remembered — pale stone stained with time, candles flickering weakly against the gloom. I found him kneeling near the altar, his hands clasped in prayer.

“Father,” I said, my voice breaking. “I need help.”

He turned, smiling at first — until he saw my face. “My child, what’s wrong?”

“I saw him,” I whispered. “Death.”

The words hung in the air like a curse.

He frowned, but gestured for me to sit. “Tell me everything.”

So I did. The accident. The fog. The voice. The dreams. The rose. His name.

When I finished, the church was silent except for the faint crackle of candlelight. Father Gabriel’s expression had changed — no longer calm, but pale and tense.

“You said… Azrael?” he asked carefully.

I nodded.

He crossed himself. “You shouldn’t have spoken that name aloud.”

“Why?”

He hesitated, then stood and reached for the nearest candle. “Because some beings hear when they are spoken of. Especially him.”

As if on cue, the flames shivered. One by one, the candles went out.

My breath caught. “Father—”

The doors at the end of the church groaned open. Cold wind swept through the pews, snuffing the last of the light.

Father Gabriel raised his voice. “You are not welcome here!”

The darkness thickened. Something moved between the pillars — tall, silent, graceful as smoke.

“Stay behind me,” the priest said. His trembling hand clutched the silver cross around his neck.

Then came the voice — smooth, unhurried, cruelly beautiful. “You think this place can keep her from me?”

I froze. Azrael stepped into the faint light spilling from the stained glass. His eyes gleamed like liquid mercury, and the shadows bent around him.

“She belongs to me,” he said simply.

Father Gabriel lifted the cross higher, muttering prayers. The air cracked with invisible pressure, and the candles reignited in blue fire. For a heartbeat, I thought it might work — until Azrael smiled.

“Faith burns bright,” he said. “But it cannot burn death.”

The cross shattered in the priest’s hand. He cried out, stumbling backward, and I screamed. Azrael’s gaze never left mine.

“Do you see now?” he murmured. “No wall, no prayer, no mortal can keep me from you.”

The world tilted, the church walls melting into mist. I tried to reach for the priest, but Azrael’s hand caught mine.

“Enough running.” His voice was a whisper, and the cold of eternity wrapped around me again.

And this time, I didn’t wake in the same world.

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