"painting"

Note: This is a short story the author wrote today, which I posted here to share with everyone.

The dark and silent night sky was filled with countless stars, which looked like they came from a famous painting.

This is a small island in Europe, in the northern part of the island, so it's relatively cold. You only see the sun in the summer.

Winters here are truly unbearable; the biting cold wind can practically crack one's delicate skin.

With snowfalls occurring every three days (light snow) and every five days (heavy snow), this place is perpetually blanketed in white, resembling a fairytale. A small town lies buried beneath the thick snow. From above, it's incredibly difficult to spot, as the snow on the rooftops seems impossible to remove.

This city has a fairly large hospital.

On the top floor of the hospital, a girl in her early twenties was wearing the striped clothes commonly seen in hospitals, indicating that she was a patient.

This is the seaside side of the hospital; from this angle, you can see the entire beach.

The air was filled with the comforting scent of oils. Beside her bed was a large wooden easel, with a sheet of A4 paper hanging on it. Her chair folded down so she could paint higher areas. Nearby were various paint buckets; the aroma must have been emanating from them. A fireplace burned on the wall, its firelight warming the room.

She has been working on this painting for half a year, and it is halfway done.

The door seemed to open a crack, and a person in a black cloak walked in, leaning on a long scythe. He then placed the scythe against the wall and tiptoed inside.

The person in the dark black cloak was sitting on her bed, looking down as she painted.

She seemed unaware that there was a second person in the room and showed no surprise at the presence of another person.

No wonder, because he's not even a person.

He is a minor grim reaper under God's command, and there are many similar beings in the world. His task is to take designated souls to heaven or hell.

Death sat with his legs crossed and his hands clasped on his lap. His assigned area was this hospital and the surrounding town. Every week, he had to go to Archangel Michael to collect a list, and he was to take away everyone on that list.

This is just like work in the human world. His job is just like this, mundane and uneventful, from 5 am to 9 pm.

He could have spent the night in any corner by the roadside, but this winter made it a bit tough, so he came to the hospital with its warm fireplace. He wouldn't freeze to death, though; if he did, he might as well give up. Even in heaven, he'd be like a lowly laborer, an insignificant figure.

But he is still the Grim Reaper, and the only way to kill him is through the holy fire of the angels. He will be burned to ashes like an A4 sheet of paper.

Eternal life is incredibly boring. He's been working for 1000 years since his creation, making him relatively young for the job of death. The work itself is also incredibly tedious and utterly unchallenging. The town and hospital don't see many deaths daily; three a day is considered a lot, and often he only has two or three tasks a week. His busiest period was when a large-scale plague was brought to Africa due to colonization. He was urgently transferred there then. He worked from morning till night every day; although exhausted, it was also very fulfilling.

Unlike now...

Death shrugged helplessly. His only pastime now was watching the painter in front of him paint. She had golden hair and her azure eyes reflected the sea. Although she was ill, with a difficult-to-treat but not particularly severe form of leukemia.

He knew she was probably close to death, but since the archangel hadn't planned to let her die yet, he wasn't willing to do the work of a volunteer.

The girl's biggest wish was to finish this painting before she died, which is why she has been actively undergoing treatment until now.

Death rolled its eyes at this. Whether she could finish drawing it depended on Michael's mood. If that archangel were to suddenly have a fit and ask Death to send her on her way, it would only take 20 minutes to bring her from here to St. Peter.

But he thought to himself, Death still doesn't want her to die. Because in its long life, it's just too boring.

He was incredibly bored. Six months ago, his pastimes included watching the tides or listening to drunks boast in pubs. He'd also use two stones as chips to participate in their gambling games; if he won, he'd pick up an extra stone from the ground, and if he lost, he'd throw away a few. He'd pretend to be involved, while carefully avoiding touching them. Death, though capable of passing through walls, was exhausting. And it couldn't pass through souls, so when they accidentally encountered Death, they experienced a bone-chilling fear—the soul's fear of death.

After he accidentally drove several gamblers mad, everyone thought it was God's punishment for gambling, so that even if no one banned gambling, Death would have no chance to play.

Death discovered this place while casually picking up a patient from the hospital. The patient was painting there, completely oblivious to Death and the patient it was carrying. Death had never seen painting before, so it lingered there for a long time...

He was subsequently punished for failing to bring his soul to the body on time. A soul separated from its body is very weak and easily dissipates; that time, the soul on his shoulder dissipated, leaving only a torso... turning him into a human stump...

So Death was whipped twice, with whips made of the holy fire of angels, and it took him a long time to recover from the pain.

But ever since then, whenever it finished its work, it would watch her paint. After she fell asleep, it would tiptoe over and dip its finger in the paint, curious about what it was. It even tasted the paint... and as expected, it rinsed its mouth for a long time before it could clean it.

As a Grim Reaper who loves art, he used to frequently visit the library to browse books. A while ago, he even scared the librarian to death because the librarian saw a book floating in the air... From then on, rumors of the library being haunted spread, and the next day, the library's books were moved to another location, much to the Grim Reaper's displeasure... Now, he secretly hides his books in his robes before reading, so no one can see the books hidden under his robes.

But the librarian wasn't very friendly to this book-stealing "petty thief." He noticed that every few days, several books would disappear, only to reappear a while later, and then new books would vanish... This made him frequently wander around with a lamp, greeting the "thief's" relatives in fluent English...

He had seen the word "oil painting" in many books, but this was truly the first time he had ever seen it.

No wonder so many people are so willing to say how wonderful oil paintings are, Death thought smugly. Now, every time he goes back to pick up a mission, he often brags to his comrades in the African region, saying, "I have someone here who paints oil paintings very well." Then he waits smugly for them to ask what oil painting is, and then he embellishes his explanation to them.

Death was very curious about how she turned those monotonous colors into a painting, and how her hands were so skillful while painting. It looked down at its own hands... Hmm... these bones have been well-maintained lately, quite smooth and supple.

For the first time, he felt inferior because of this... when he realized he couldn't even hold a paintbrush properly...

Time slowly passed, and the painting was nearing completion.

Death couldn't help but feel a little happy, because it seemed that her wish to finish the painting before she died could finally be fulfilled.

His permissions were too low; he didn't have the authority to check the girl's lifespan. Therefore, he didn't know if the girl would live to see that day.

Death glanced at a watch in his hand. This watch wasn't for recording ordinary time; it was a countdown timer for receiving missions.

She has about 15 days, or half a month, left before the painting is finished.

Although finishing this painting would have no bearing on Death, he still genuinely wanted to see it completed.

There are still 2 days left before she receives the mission. As long as her name is not on the next two missions, she will have at least 14 days left to live, which is enough time to complete the painting.

Death leaned back. Humans, aside from everything else, certainly made comfortable beds. After midnight, it would have to find a wooden barrel on the street to spend the night, and in the warmth of the fireplace, it would rest a little.

Two days passed in the blink of an eye. Carrying the sickle that had been with it for who knows how long, and whistling the tune it had learned from humans, it happily arrived in front of St. Peter, watching him holding stacks of papers.

He had been in a good mood ever since he started watching her paint. Saint Peter was also surprised; most of the Grim Reapers were cold as stone, but this one was unexpectedly "lively."

He first handed over the list he had received earlier, which had a hastily written list of the unfortunate victims from the previous week. St. Peter checked... or rather glanced at it, and then handed over a new list.

"Hmm... this time there was no soul damage due to an accident, right?" Saint Peter said half-jokingly.

The human stick he brought back before was truly the biggest mistake Death has ever made since ancient times... I've never even heard of it.

Death glanced up quickly, not recognizing anyone. No one was worthy of Death's memory. He was merely counting, estimating how long it would be before he could sit in that hospital by the fireplace, on a soft bed, watching that girl paint.

"Then you didn't give me the wrong order, did you?" Death replied with a smile.

St. Peter was taken aback, took the form and examined it carefully, then looked up and said.

“I’m absolutely certain I didn’t take the wrong one, what’s wrong?” St. Peter asked nervously.

"Just kidding." Death snatched the form from him and then ran off in a rage.

This is also a widely circulated story: St. Peter once gave a list of people in Egypt to the Grim Reaper in China. The Chinese Grim Reaper couldn't understand the Egyptian names, so he thought they were from a neighboring island nation and rushed to deliver them to the Grim Reaper in Japan... In the end, about 67 souls stayed in the world for an extra week. This story has been widely circulated as a joke.

Death quickly returned to his work area. He first sat down in that familiar spot, watching the girl still drawing, then warmed his hands by the fire. He pulled up the list; there were probably four people. He thought he'd rest for a couple of days before getting back to work.

His authority was limited to deciding when a person would die within the week.

Death can sense a person's location and appearance by placing his finger on their name... Hmm, this is a drunken old man who lost all his money at the gambling table last week. Poor guy.

There's also a newborn baby here... It's so tragic, I guess he suffocated because of lack of oxygen to the brain...

There's another teenager... oh, he's the one who hangs out at bars all the time. Last week I saw him with two hot girls on either side of him. I guess he was drunk and lost his balance and fell into the river.

That form wasn't very powerful; it could only tell Death what the target looked like. But having been here for so long, I've still gotten to know some people.

The last one... He placed his finger on it as usual... Hmm... It's a blonde girl with bright blue eyes... Fair skin... Wait a minute!

The Grim Reaper snapped out of his daze and slowly raised his head with some difficulty, seeing the girl drawing in front of him...

Maybe there are other blonde, blue-eyed girls in this city? He thought stubbornly, perhaps she was a twin who looked a lot like her? After all, he hadn't paid any attention to her name.

Death swallowed something that didn't exist at all, and looked at the foot of the bed. As usual, there would be a sign there recording the patient's information, but he had never paid attention to it before.

"Do you want to see it?" He thought, head down... He slowly moved to the foot of the bed and looked at the name on the sign.

The name was exactly the same as the one on the list, but Death still thought there was a mistake, so he checked it letter by letter.

Then I looked at it again... and I'm sure it's this person.

Death sat there blankly, its brain, which had long since lost its intelligence, now spinning at high speed.

He just hopes she can finish drawing quickly so she won't die such a regrettable death.

The only thing Death can do now is to execute her last.

Looking at the progress of the painting, he realized that a week was really too short.

Death no longer needs to see her weakened state to know that she is not far from death.

She appeared to be a soul separated from her body, which indicates that she was a soul that would be harvested by Death.

But he doesn't want to bring the sickle into the ward now, afraid that she might accidentally bump into it.

The sun completed its full circle in the sky, and surprisingly, death wasn't in that ward today.

He has finished all his tasks except hers, and he will be switching to a new batch of tasks in three days.

Death sat on a wooden barrel, his arms crossed over his chest, trembling uncontrollably.

At this time of day, even the bars are closed, and he can't even find a place to sit and warm himself by the fire.

"This robe doesn't keep me warm at all," it thought bitterly. "Why do all the Grim Reapers in the world have to wear the same uniform?" It recalled hearing a colleague from the equatorial region complain about how hot this outfit was just the other day.

It's possible that the designers simply didn't consider comfort. After all, Death's life is endless and he won't die because of changes in the environment, so there's no need to worry about it.

He slowly curled up inside the bucket, an empty bucket into which Death had squeezed through obstacles. Though not particularly large, being crammed in made him feel like a sardine. It was incredibly suffocating, but it offered good protection from the cold wind, allowing him to barely fall asleep.

But he couldn't sleep, and when he couldn't sleep, his mind wandered. Death thought of the girl who was going to die this week.

He didn't want her to die such a regretful death, an unfinished work, just a little bit short...

Death thought to himself, "Whatever, why should I care about a human's wish? I'm meddling in too many things. I should just take her soul away now."

Yes! Under the cover of night, she should be asleep. He should be careful during this time, and try to make sure she's already in heaven by the time she wakes up.

Death slowly emerged from within again, and a sharp gust of wind blew over. He instinctively clutched his scythe in his arms, seeking a sliver of warmth.

He arrived at the hospital lobby in just a few seconds.

The fire in the stove was burning brightly, and the young man on duty was asleep at his desk.

Death stood at the doorway, rolling up his gray sleeves, looking full of energy. He took two deep breaths, gripped the scythe that had been with him all his life, and charged into the house with murderous intent.

When he went in, he kicked the door open; to others, it looked like a strong gust of wind blew the door open.

Surprisingly, the girl wasn't sleeping; she was still drawing.

Death froze. The room was eerily quiet, and he seemed like a robber who had broken in.

He thought to himself, maybe this girl knows she's about to die, so she's in a hurry?

Death felt out of place in the room, even though he only needed to walk over and pull her soul out of her body, without even needing to use his scythe.

But he quietly went out, making sure to close the door behind him.

After Death left, he slid down the wall to the ground, feeling a sudden sense of dejection. When did he become so soft-hearted? But he clearly didn't even have a heart.

He leaned against the wall and slowly fell asleep, like a little dog guarding the gate.

The next day, Death began to think about how to let the girl live a little longer.

He felt that since he couldn't bring himself to do it, he should try to help her.

Death touched his non-existent chin with his skeletal hand, his deep-set eyes gleaming with a faint blue light—he was thinking.

First of all, this definitely can't be done through a text-based process; Michael would never agree to that. So he needs to find a way to make her task an error, and then they'll check it. He just needs to delay it for a little over a week, and the girl's drawing will be finished, while he'll at most get two lashes.

How to make a mistake? Death smacked his lips; he did have an idea.

As we all know, God decides life and death. He informs Michael of his decision, which is then translated into text by St. Peter. Sometimes, Death cannot find some well-hidden individuals who are trying to evade it. If Death sees that the deadline for its mission is approaching, it will simply find a scapegoat; after all, the inspection is not very thorough, as long as the general outline is correct.

He can find a scapegoat.

Hmm...who should I ask? Death pondered, head bowed.

Why not go after that heartless scumbag Kent? He's done so many hurtful things to girls, and by sending him to God's judgment early, we're actually helping those girls.

He thought smugly, then his gaze dimmed once again.

No, this child is very filial. The last time I passed by his house, he was warming his father's feet, who suffers from Alzheimer's, in his lap. His father has been sick for almost 40 years, and would have died long ago if it weren't for this child taking care of him.

Oh! There's another good candidate.

Death suddenly jumped up, pacing back and forth, he was very pleased.

Carol is a great candidate! I've never met anyone more stingy than her. Last time at the market, I saw her peel and weigh the oranges, and then because one of them was rotten, she didn't want most of the bag of oranges she had peeled, and even argued with the vendor about it.

But...she still has two children...Death once again slumped dejectedly in the barrel.

The poor brother and sister were born after their father died. Death still remembers the scene when he took their father away—in a dimly lit little room, she saw her husband off. And after her husband's soul was pulled out by Death, his only request was to see his children one last time... If it weren't for this stingy man, perhaps those two children would have frozen solid in the cold wind?

Death shook his head and sighed. He tapped his head again with his fingers, hoping to squeeze something out of it.

He suddenly remembered someone: the unscrupulous merchant Dabulu in the tavern!

This time, it picked up its sickle and headed in that direction.

This guy is really wicked. He dilutes beer with water and indirectly raises the price of the beer. As far as he knows, he has neither parents nor children. Every time he thinks of this guy, he wants to spit on him.

As far as Death knew, he would go to the hospital at this time of week.

It quickly arrived at the only hospital in town, pushed open a ward door, and its sickle was already eager to be used. It was right next to a bed in front of it.

Suddenly, a nurse emerged from his body and then inexplicably fell to the ground.

She startled Death, who couldn't dodge and could only raise his scythe. If he had touched that thing, the little nurse would have been long gone.

Startled, Dabroo quickly ran over and helped the nurse up, then asked in a slightly trembling voice, "Mustard... how is she?"

The nurse shook her head, as if trying to ward off fear: "It's terrible."

Dabrew sighed and sat back down.

"Give up... She's in a vegetative state now, and you've wasted so much money on her treatment..." the nurse whispered.

Dabrew shook his head, then pushed open the door and left.

The nurse glanced at the girl lying on the hospital bed with envy and whispered, "Your boyfriend is so good to you..."

Death listened to the entire conversation, and once again wandered aimlessly through the streets.

Ruby? Cassie? Dorn...

No...no...no...

It felt like it was about to collapse. It looked up and found itself back in the hospital room that had given it peace of mind.

There's no reason for her to take someone's life for her dream... that's fair.

The stove emitted a warm light, and the pale red glow of the fire illuminated her profile.

Death bowed his head, clutching his scythe.

Tonight at midnight, that's the latest possible date.

This dream might only come true in the next life. This is all I can do to help you. Take care.

Ding ding ding, the clock tower struck 12 o'clock.

The girl lay quietly on the chair, holding a paintbrush, as if she were asleep.

The painting in front of me is just a little bit short...