Death's Commission

The wooden floor creaked under every slow and somber step. 

Rivaling the dreadful sight of an abandoned warehouse, the small space was dim, having aged woefully, nearly every inch of it covered in layers of wispy tan dust. Some settled onto the edges of his old round glasses, but he couldn’t bother to wipe it off, looking around. The small space, that once exuded the vibrancy of a home, was quiet, not a single sound of the once buzzing cicadas or the occasional fluttering tweet of the local sparrows filling the void. 

His workshop was tired. 

And ultimately, so was he. 

His footsteps were riddled with a slight drag, the squeaks and crumpling noises of old wood following his pace. It was his only company, as he stepped further and further into the familiar place. Really, it was just a small workshop, a moderately sized cube built of cement with its edges crumbling and door windows opaque from the years of dust collecting. But it seemed smaller by the past addition of shelves, lumber, the variously sized tools, and the main desk pressed against one side of the wall, large piles of long sketchbooks filled with half-rendered ideas and late night spontaneous sketches placed on one side of it, and once spilled onto the floor. Those too, had aged wearily, browning at the edges, the ink just a little smeared in the thicker lines of the drawings. 

There was a generous amount of sunlight that spilled into the room through the largest opaque window, a big square adjacent to the wide, ivory desk. It casted a glow onto the metal objects, a small reflection hitting his eyes, and for a moment, he stilled, wondering how they could still emit such a glare. But he stilled, accepted the anger, the frustration, the weariness that radiated off of the thin silver faces, and he stalked towards them, nevermind the dust or small webs visible around the faded wooden handles. 

He didn’t dare to touch. Not yet. He had to be forgiven first. And the first being he had to offer his apology to was right besides the window, basking in the soft light. Reaching up to the height of his shoulders, a tall and thin piece of lumber leaned against the corner, almost cylinder-like, cloudy webs and harsh indentions decorating its surface. 

Squeezing his eyes while huffing out through his nose once, he sighed. His wrinkled hands ached, but he couldn’t determine whether it was from pain or agitation. He slowly reached for the large, blocky canvas, and brought it out of the dark corner. There were no dwindling or escaping spiders, and the dust seemed to float gently into the air, small clouds of light gray and light brown particles. 

The guilt was there, trailing patterns over his shoulders, then his neck, down to his palms, as he held onto the damaged canvas. The bottom of the lumber slightly chipped when he carefully lowered it into a platform. It stood up straight, still as ever, cold as ever, and he sighed once more. He grabbed a stool, randomly a carving tool, and plopped down. A small huff escaped him as he looked up. 

Nothing seemed to have changed. 

But nearly all his senses were still keen to wood. The sight of his carved pieces thrown all over the place, the sharp but sweet smell of sap and cleanly cut lumber, the dangerous, soft touch of smooth, shaved edges, even the sound of his carving tool gently digging up the dense surface, it still echoed into his ears. 

So vibrant, so clear, it felt like those ten years were a mere ten minutes. 

The canvas in front of him was scratched up, beaten, almost slashed into mercilessly, and under all the harsh injuries, the outline of a figure is barely traceable. He sighed, again, but it was of woe and a soft kind of happiness, not one where he felt like jumping or trembling in excitement (not that he physically could in the first place), but one of which he could smile at the familiar face etched into the wood. He could smile, bittersweet at the traces of the younger face, and fix the piece one last time, all at his own pace. He could smile. Could. Truly, he was offered a small token of time’s mercy. 

“Damn, this shit is dusty.” 

And the old man did smile. 

He smiled wonderfully, eyes crinkling—even a small, hoarse laugh escapes him, shoulders shaking a little. The carving tool was positioned properly in his hand. Grip shaky for a few seconds, he pressed it against the piece of lumber. 

“I suppose it’s been a while.” One gentle scrape at the half-etched nose. 

“Ten years, kid. You didn’t think about coming back here?” 

Another tick, gentle push, a light scrape, “Well, I didn’t know if I could ever finish this.” 

There was a baited breath, as he brushed a hand over the piece. He didn’t add any more to his reason, and he didn’t have to. His life’s story was already revealed to them. 

“That you?” The voice plopped down onto another, smaller stool besides him. They understood, continued the simple conversation. 

The old man paused. Then slowly nodded. 

“Not bad.” 

He hesitated before pushing his carving tool at the quietly mumbled words, and soon, a smile riddled onto his lips once more. He dug a little deeper. 

Maybe it was because it was the first time he had received a compliment in twelve years, maybe it was because such a compliment came from a rough, and wonderfully grumpy grim reaper, maybe it was because he was able to  return to his work as if he never left it—but he felt something, somehow, wrapping over his cold body. 

“You commission?” 

Push, scrape, “I used to,” He gently blew off a group of thin, curly shavings. 

“‘Should make one of me lying back on my spear,” The grim reaper suggested, stretching his long limbs out. He ended up floating just a little above the small stool, almost as if laid back on an invisible rug.  

The old man glances at the taller figure with knowing eyes, “..You and your spear?”

The grim reaper scoffs, “Oh shut up, I have a spear, just—not on me.. And I wasn’t lying about the lottery number either.. ‘Just—I was just one day late,”

Hearing the start of the grim reaper’s ramble brought forth another wave of unknown emotions to course through through the old man, and the workshop didn’t feel so tired, didn’t feel as isolated. The deep voice brushed away the layers of dust off his papers, his apron, the shelves, and instead seemed to warm the main room more than the sun seemed to be doing from outside. As he carved and scraped and continued to dig at the unfinished piece, he basked in the ironic warmth of the mysterious, entertaining presence. 

The grim reaper assigned to him was a lean figure standing (sometimes floating) at a bare minimum of six feet, dressed rather modern, but simultaneously lazy for a stereotypical Grim Reaper. His appearance was drenched in his attitude—a simple, all-black suit—but his tie was loose, his pants were dusted around the edges, and his shoes were a rustic, worn down pair of ivory black. His entire face was covered by a white, round mask, with thin, red spider lilies carved into it, the variously sized lines smooth and defined (a contrast to the old man’s organic and loose-lined techniques). His attitude was amusing, and contradictory in that he, by all means, had no room to care about what obstacles time and heaven had to offer him, yet he could still ramble on about how stupid it is that Anastel a rotten devil of an angel told him that one of his spear’s pointer was crooked, when he had just been polishing it, ‘minding his own business, ‘makes no sense. The old man nodded along to every story, his smile struggling to fade. 

He had only known his grim reaper for two days, but such a short time had been more enlightening than the ten years that flew past him after he abandoned the workshop. 

“So are you goin’ to make one of me and my spear or not?”

He chuckled, watching the dust scatter away as he lightly brushed at more shavings, “Maybe.” 

“I’ll extend your time here. Oh yes, that would definitely piss Anastel and his little halo friends off.. so much,” The glee was palpable in the tone, a smile could be felt from the way he placed his palms together to one side. He started to float higher, even walking around in the air from one side of the room to the other, raising a gloved hand to hold his chin as he pondered, then clapped, then announced a new idea. The sudden moments of glee were contagious for the old man, who laughed at the maniacal suggestions and propositions that this brighter, taller presence was offering. 

The sun had already set, but the workshop was blanketed in warmth by the energy that radiated from the presence wandering around in the air. 

“After this.” 

The grim reaper is sitting upside down in the air, floating shortly above the piece of lumber, “Hm?” 

“After this,” The old man softly spoke, running his other palm down the half-finished portrait. Across the oaky, sandy, rough but smooth texture, a younger, familiar man was looking back at him, a past smile resonating with his current one all the same. He could finish this. The grim reaper continued his pompous suggestions, don’t forget the hat, I swear if you call it a fedora hat, and his vision for the whole thing, the perfect piece that he can use to brag to his other dead friends—all while floating and waltzing around in the air. 

“After this,” The old man repeated, more to himself. 

The night sneakily slipped into the workshop, but the darkness danced with the small lanterns lit by the grim reaper, shadows celebrating the return of the old wood sculptor. The old man graciously accepted the mercy of time, carving and dusting and cherishing his work like he didn’t before, working to the unrelenting music that was the grim reaper’s endless stories and quiet hums. He dwelled in the welcoming party, the warmth of the candles, and the rich maple and oakwood scents that somehow spilled into the room from every corner, the low voice of the grim reaper accompanying the small scrapes and ticks.

The workshop wasn't tired.

And neither was he.