The Hourglass

November 8, 2024

“It must have fallen off the shelf at some point and rolled under your desk,” Death’s secretary mused. She held the hourglass up, careful not to move any of the sand as it lay on its side. The light from the room’s stained glass window filtered through the dusty crystalware, and her pair of dark, interminable eyes caught them. She turned to Death, who sat at his desk rubbing his temples. “How did you not find it sooner?”

“I’ve been busy.”

Death’s secretary carefully set the hourglass on his desk, ensuring that the sand was spread evenly in each bulb. A flicker of a smile could be seen on her face. “I know.”

“And I don’t have time to clean.”

“That’s debatable.”

Death sighed and drummed his bones restlessly against his mahogany desk. It was old, with a collection of scrapes and mug stains gathered over the centuries, but not nearly as old as him. He reached toward the hourglass, distal phalanges grazing the engraved year: 1967. He wondered how long the hourglass had been there, tucked away from the light of the room. They said Death was dark, but he certainly did enjoy having the curtains thrown aside and his windows open. 

Death’s secretary watched, waiting for him to speak. She was hired to keep him in line, for a millennium ago there were too many records of souls to keep track of and not enough time to collect them all. Years later, she’d proved successful at her job and learned to read Death like a bound archive of her favorite stories.

Though now she could see he was in deep in thought, (or perhaps pretending to be distracted so as to avoid the problem, sometimes it was hard to tell) she had to remind him of the issue at hand. 

“Ahem,” she said. “Well, this has to be taken care of one way or another. This human can’t continue to live a life in which no time passes for them, so…”

“I’ll sort something out.”

She waited a moment, then opened a manila folder. “I found his file. Born in 1967…Should have died 2005.” She slapped it shut and handed it to Death. “Two decades ago.”

“That’s an estimation,” he disputed, accepting the folder. 

What felt like eternity passed before he glanced at her, briefly. “I’ll be better at cleaning my spaces.” He then went back to reading the file until a moment later, when he set the folder down. “I think I should speak to him.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. To clean things up. It’s important that he has at least a minor understanding.”

Death’s secretary noticed the entreating tone in his voice. Calling souls into Death’s office was not a commonly taken path. A brain would have no memory of the event and it didn’t do much harm, but she found it a bit bothersome. Yet the incredibly sentimental (and obstinate) Death requested it rather frequently, and most times against her discretion. He liked to speak to souls, to encourage them to keep going.

She picked up the folder and asked, “Should I contact him?”

“I would appreciate that.”

She smiled and left, leaving Death alone in the room. 

He sat back and stared out the stained glass window. Shades of reds faded into yellows, blues faded into purples, and the colors sparkled like an abstract echo of the window in his endlessly dark eyes. As he awaited for the soul’s arrival, he thought about his experiences with them. 

Ultimately, humans fascinated Death. He found them to be quite contradictory. Over the many years he had learned that in the average person’s life, there is too much time, and so they dance with boredom and risk until discovering they don’t have enough of it. They could be stupid like that. Many, in fact, ran toward him at full force, without a flicker of awareness. Some missed, by only a centimeter of luck. But most of them didn’t, and he embraced them and led their souls to the afterlife. 

While not very smart, they had stories. Tales that Death got to hear as he accompanied them to their next journey, many of them favorites moments from their lives. He enjoyed listening to them. 

The sound of the door scuffing along the hardwood floors brought Death back to the present, and he turned around just as the man’s soul entered the room. 

The figure before him was a pale silhouette of his body, shifting slowly like a body of water, with a misshapen orb emitting a bright light at his chest. This sphere of energy radiated colors that only Death saw, the deepest fragments of an individual. Humans, after all, are just souls trapped in bodies.

“Hello,” Death said. He stood, bones cracking quietly as his skeletal figure rose to its full height. He reached out and squeezed the man’s silhouetted hand, then gestured for him to sit in the chair across from him.

“I’m concerned,” the man stated as he sat down. He warily studied Death’s appearance.

“There have been…complications with your life span,” Death admitted. “There was, let’s say, an office error.”

The orb’s light flickered with fear. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re time has gone on longer than it should have, by my mistake.”

“Oh.” 

They stared at one another. Death fidgeted with a pen on his desk.

“Not many have evaded me like this,” he confessed. “It was, of course, my own blunder. Nevertheless, I’m surprised. Have you had a good life?”

“I think so.” The man paused in thought. “I don’t really know what it means to live a good life.”

Death leaned forward and studied the soul. He saw a tapestry of failure and success and tears and smiles over little and big things alike. He saw a beautiful life, one worth living.

“I think you’ve lived a very good life,” he said quietly. “…Would you like a few more years?”

“Aren’t I long overdue?”

The bones of Death’s shoulders lifted up in indifference. He thought of what his secretary might say, knowing it would be teasing criticism of his tenderheartedness. “Well, yes, but that’s my fault. I’ll speak with Life.”

As he said this, he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a new hourglass. The sand within it wasn’t overflowing, but it was enough. It would serve for just a handful of years, spent with thrills and tribulations. Death hoped there would be more of the former, but then again, he felt that life wasn’t always as vivid without the latter. 

“Thank you,” the man whispered. “Thank you so much.”

The orb sparkled with hope as he got up to leave, but he paused as he reached the door.

“I was wondering, what’s Life like?”

Death looked up at the tin ceiling and pondered this. “Life is ever changing. Full of energy and chaos.”

Satisfied, the man’s soul vibrated as he nodded. “That sounds right. Well…I guess I’ll see you in a few years?”

Death stood and watched as the soul left the room. “Yes. I’ll see you soon, friend.”