They say every reaper dreams differently. Some see endless oceans where souls drift like pale jellyfish; others see empty fields with graves that bloom.
I see mirrors.
Endless walls of glass that hum with faint whispers — reflections that don’t always move when I do. Some tilt their heads at the wrong time. Others grin when I frown.
The system says it’s a side effect of prolonged soul collection — “psychic residue,” they call it. When you take too many lives, fragments of them cling to you. Echoes.
But deep down, I know better.
They aren’t echoes.
They’re 𝘮𝘦.
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In the dream, I always stand in the center of the hall of mirrors. It stretches forever, glowing faintly blue, like moonlight trapped in frost.
That’s when I see the three.
One me — cold, sharp, calculating. Her hair’s pulled back, her uniform spotless. Her eyes have seen every kind of death and never blinked once.
The second me — broken, trembling. Her coat’s stained with tears, her scythe rusted. She doesn’t speak much, just stares at her hands as though the blood on them will never wash away.
The last me — small. Eyes full of childlike wonder. She smiles as if the world still makes sense. As if she still believes it’s beautiful.
She holds something in her tiny hands — glowing softly, pulsing in rhythm.
A heartbeat.
Mine.
“You’re not supposed to have that,” I tell her. My voice echoes like it’s made of glass shards.
She just tilts her head. “Then why do you keep dreaming of it?”
The cold one steps forward, every move precise, metallic. “Because she’s weak,” she says. “She keeps looking back. The job is to reap, not remember.”
The broken one lets out a shaky breath. “But remembering is all we have left.”
I glance at them all. “We’re the same person. Why fight?”
The cold one smirks. “Because you still think we are.”
The mirrors begin to hum louder — a thousand versions of me flickering in the reflection. Some smiling. Some screaming. Some… gone.
My child self looks up, eyes gleaming gold. “We weren’t born to take souls,” she whispers. “We were born to find one.”
I take a step back, but there’s nowhere to run — the mirrors stretch forever.
The cold one raises her scythe. “You’ve lingered too long.”
And the child says, softly, “Wake up.”
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When I open my eyes, the world feels wrong.
My office light flickers, casting long shadows on the walls. The computer screen glows with the Reaper System Interface — a grid of names waiting for collection. Thousands.
But one name blinks brighter than the rest.
CELINE HARROW.
My name.
I stare at it, throat dry. “This isn’t funny.”
But the system doesn’t joke.
The system doesn’t make mistakes.
I press a few keys — nothing happens. The screen freezes. The cursor blinks like a heartbeat.
Then, slowly, letters begin to type themselves.
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The lights die.
I freeze. I can feel the air grow cold, like winter pressing against my skin. My reflection appears on the blackened monitor — but it’s not me.
It’s her.
The cold one.
“You’ve worked hard,” she says, voice hollow. “You’ve collected your share. Now it’s time to rest.”
From behind, I hear quiet sobs — the broken one. “You should have listened. You should have let go.”
And a small, trembling voice whispers near my ear, “Don’t be afraid.”
I turn — and there they stand. The three of me, gathered like ghosts.
The cold one holds the scythe out toward me.
The broken one takes my shaking hand.
And the child presses something warm into my chest.
A heartbeat.
Mine.
It thunders inside me, wild and terrifying. The sound of being alive.
But it burns too — memories flood back, blinding. The life before this. The accident. The promise I made to the one I couldn’t save. The deal I accepted.
I was never meant to be the reaper. I was meant to be reaped.
The mirrors around me shatter all at once — a rain of silver glass and light. Through the falling shards, I see a figure — cloaked in white, holding a list. The true Reaper.
They reach for me, voice calm and eternal. “Welcome home, Celine.”
And as everything fades, I smile — not cold, not broken, but whole.
For the first time in eternity, I’m not guiding souls anymore.
I’m becoming one.
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and then Add to home screen.