Loving You Was Against the Rules

Elena's Pov

I'm sitting on a stool in the corner, invisible to every human in the room, with my black book open on my knee and absolutely nothing interesting to look at.

A few feet away, a man named Arthur is crammed into a booth with a plate of scrambled eggs and absolutely no idea that he has four minutes left to live.

"I told you, honey, I'll send the money tonight," he says into his phone, laughing as he chews with zero concern for anyone around him.

"The check cleared this morning. Five thousand dollars. It's all yours. We can finally pay off the debt."

I look down at his entry in my book.

Arthur Miller. 8:00 AM. Cardiac arrest. Table seven.

I check the clock on the wall and see that it reads 7:56.

Four minutes until Arthur Miller's last meal.

He's still completely convinced he has a future and a wife and a debt to pay off by the end of the week. He listens to whatever she's saying on the other end and grins.

"I know. I love you too. I'm just finishing breakfast, then I'll—"

He stops mid-sentence.

His eyes go wide and glassy. The phone slips from his fingers and cracks against the table. Both hands grip the edge of the booth like he's trying to hold the world in place. His face turns a deep, bruised purple that no living person's face should ever be.

I stand up from the stool and close my book.

Arthur's body slumps forward and his forehead hits the table with a dull, heavy thud that makes the salt shaker rattle. The diner erupts into chaos all around him as though the universe has been waiting for permission to panic.

"He's choking! Someone call 911!"

I step through the chaos like it isn't there, because for me, it isn't. A woman throws herself over Arthur trying to perform CPR. A teenager bolts for the door screaming loud enough to shake the windows. A waitress drops an entire tray of glasses and doesn't even notice the sound they make when they shatter.

I stand over Arthur and I wait.

A pale, shimmering version of him peels slowly away from the body like a second skin being shed. His spirit blinks at its own hands, looks down at the crowd of people desperately trying to save him, and then turns and looks at me.

"What..." His voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "What just happened? Why are they all touching me like that?"

I hold up the book so he can see his name glowing white on the open page. "Arthur Miller. Time of death: 8:00 AM. You're dead."

"No!" He reaches instinctively for the phone still lying on the table, and his hand passes straight through it like it's made of smoke.

"No, I have to send that money. My wife is waiting for it. I promised her tonight, I promised—"

"The dead don't make bank transfers, Arthur."

He stares at me like I've said something monstrous, and maybe I have, but I stopped measuring my words against human feelings a very long time ago.

"Who are you?" he whispers. "Are you an angel?"

They always ask that. Every single one of them, without fail, as though it matters what label they put on me. Are you an angel? Are you Death? Are you the Devil? The answer has always been too complicated for the amount of time we have together, so I've stopped trying to explain it properly.

Humans have a hundred names for what I am. I don't particularly care for any of them. To me, it's just a job with very specific requirements. Record the name. Guide the soul. Maintain the balance. Go home and do it again tomorrow.