Years Later
The hospital room was white. It smelled of antiseptic and lilies. The only sound was the rhythmic beeping of the monitor. Beep... Beep... Beep.
Elian lay in the bed. He was tired. His skin was like parchment paper, thin and fragile, mapping the geography of a long life. His hair was gone, replaced by a few wisps of white. Around the bed, heads were bowed. His daughter, Elyra, was holding his hand. His teenage grandson was looking at his phone, looking uncomfortable, just like Elian used to at that age.
Elian wanted to tell him it was okay. He wanted to tell him that awkwardness is just the first draft of a personality. But he didn't have the breath.
He closed his eyes. The tiredness was heavy, like a warm, grey wool blanket being pulled up over his head.
Beep... Beep... Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
The sound went flat. The room erupted into crying, but the sound was muffled, distant, like it was coming from underwater. Then, the weight vanished. The pain in his joints, the heaviness in his chest, the dull ache in his knee that he had named 'Harold', it all dissolved.
Elian opened his eyes. He sat up. His body felt light. Electric. He looked at his hands, no wrinkles, no tremors. He was eighteen again. He looked down at the bed. An old man was lying there, eyes closed, surrounded by grieving family.
"Huh," Elian said. His voice was young again. Strong. "I looked good for eighty-two."
"You looked like a raisin in a suit. But a very dapper raisin."
The voice came from the corner of the room. Elian turned. Leaning against the sterile white wall was a girl. She looked exactly the same as she had on the roof sixty years ago. Same oversized black coat that rippled like smoke. Same combat boots. Same ancient, mischievous eyes.
She was holding a bright red apple. Crunch. She took a bite, chewing loudly in the silent room. She swallowed and smirked at him.
"You're late," she said.
Elian swung his legs off the bed. He stood up, feeling the phantom floor beneath his feet. He looked at the girl who had saved him by promising to kill him. A smile, the wildest, truest smile he had worn in decades, spread across his face.
"Sorry," Elian said, walking toward her. "I took the scenic route."
"I know," Lyra said, pushing off the wall. "I watched. You got married. You became a history teacher. You finally painted your room grey. You even learned to drive, badly, I might add."
"I never hit a car," Elian defended.
"You hit a mailbox," she countered, her eyes dancing. "I laughed for three days. It was tragic."
Elian stopped in front of her. He looked at her coat. It was still made of shadows. "So," Elian said softly. "You're still here. Still a Reaper?"
Lyra shook her head. "No," she said. "I haven't been a Reaper since the day you turned nineteen, Elian."
Elian frowned. "What?"
"The rules," Lyra explained, tossing the apple core into a trash can (it vanished into mist). "A life for a life. That was my punishment. I took my own life, so I had to serve until I saved one."
She stepped closer to him. "When you stepped off that roof... when you decided to stay... the debt was paid. The paperwork cleared sixty years ago. The System told me I could go. My sentence was over."
Elian stared at her. The realization hit him harder than death. She was free. She had been free for sixty years. She could have crossed over. She could have gone to the light, to her family, to the warmth.
"You were free?" Elian whispered. "Then why... why are you still here? Why are you wearing the coat?"
Lyra looked down at her boots. For the first time in a century, she looked shy. "Because," she mumbled. "I walked to the Gate. I looked at the light. It looked nice. Warm."
She looked up at him. Her eyes were shining. "But then I remembered that you still owed me a date in Paris. And I realized... I didn't want to walk into the party alone."
Elian felt his chest tighten. "You waited," he said, his voice trembling. "You waited in the hallway for sixty years."
"I'm patient," Lyra shrugged, trying to play it cool, though her smile was wobbling. "And besides, the entertainment was good. Watching you raise kids? Hilarious. You panicked every time they sneezed."
"Lyra," Elian stepped closer.
"I didn't want to go without my partner, Elian," she whispered. "It wouldn't have been the same."
Elian looked at her. She wasn't a monster. She wasn't a punishment. She was the most loyal thing in the universe.
"I'm ready now," Elian said.
He reached out his hand. He hesitated. The muscle memory of a lifetime told him don't touch, it burns.
"It's okay," Lyra whispered, seeing his hesitation. "My shift is over. The coat is just a fashion statement now. Gravity doesn't work where we're going."
Elian reached out. He touched her cheek. It wasn't cold. It wasn't burning. It wasn't static. It was warm. Solid. Real.
Lyra leaned into his touch, closing her eyes, letting out a breath she had been holding since 1945. "Finally," she breathed.
Elian cupped her face. He laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. "You're warm," he said.
"And you're late," she teased, opening her eyes.
She grabbed his hand. Her grip was tight. Intertwined fingers. No gangrene. No frostbite. Just two souls holding on.
"Come on," she said, pulling him toward the door. The hospital wall was dissolving into a soft, golden light that smelled like rain and old books. "We have a reservation."
"Reservation?" Elian asked, following her. "Where?"
Lyra grinned over her shoulder. "Paris," she said. "I hear the croissants on the Other Side are to die for."
"After you," Elian said.
"Together," Lyra corrected.
Hand in hand, the Boy who lived a full life and the Girl who waited for him walked through the wall, leaving the grey world behind to finally, truly, start their beginning.
THE END.