Death invited himself for dinner one night. They knew he was coming, but it took the rapping of his gnarled knuckles on their splintered door to convince them. Old age had long set in and was apparent in the way he dragged himself into their home. Having traded in his scythe for a cane, each stamp of the rotted wood was like a clock ticking, ever nearer to when he would claim his soul and ever nearer to when they would leave the living world.

The father let him in, a place setting laid expectantly. The fork and knife gleamed with anticipation, eager to be used. But they would be disappointed, for Death does not sate himself with mortal food.

They stood at attention, mother and sister, while the father led Death to his seat. The father reached out to Death, guiding him and nearly touching his burlap cloak. A rumble that could fill the deepest void issued forth from Death’s mouth. For anyone who touched Death had to be taken and it was not the father he came for this night.

It was a quiet meal. The fire crackled with anxiety, competing with the chill that Death brought in, and the wooden beams that held the house groaned for what was to come. The family ate and Death kept his head bowed. A sign of respect or perhaps of regret or fatigue, the family didn’t know. In defiance, the girl spoke: “Do not feign sorrow when you know none.”

Death lifted his head and with deliberate slowness lowered his hood. A withered man sat before the family. Deep set wrinkles were etched into his paper thin face. Cavernous crevices formed between the hilly peaks of each wrinkle.With tear soaked words he answered the girl:

“For every soul I take, a thimbleful of my own soul is left behind. It is penance and a reminder that Death is always with you. My job will not be finished until there is nothing left of me. Then the task will fall to another deserving victim, though I warrant that not even the worst deserve to be drained such as this. I weep every time I am called, and I grieve because there is still so much left.”

Death stood up. It was time to go. Determined not to cry, the mother grasped her daughter’s hand for the last time, accepted a thimble from the cloaked figure, and bade her daughter goodbye. The father could not look as his daughter took Death by the arm and willingly left. Death sighed, for it was always easier to take the willing.