The Business Of Souls

The first thing Samuel noticed about Death was that it was... small. And covered in fur.

He blinked down at the sleek black cat sitting on his kitchen counter, its golden eyes fixed on him with the kind of disdain usually reserved for slow learners and unwashed houseguests.

“You’re a cat,” Samuel said, his voice flat.

The cat flicked its tail, an elegant, sweeping motion that seemed to say, Yes, obviously. Try to keep up.

Samuel rubbed his temples. “Okay, so I’m hallucinating. That’s great. Too much stress, not enough sleep—classic recipe for a breakdown.”

“You’re not hallucinating,” the cat replied, its voice deep and velvety, with just a hint of boredom.

Samuel froze. “You can talk.”

“Brilliant deduction,” the cat drawled. It leapt gracefully from the counter to the table, where it began inspecting a half-eaten sandwich with an air of detached curiosity. “Shame you didn’t figure things out this quickly when it came to balancing your finances.”

Samuel’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

The cat sat back on its haunches, curling its tail neatly around its paws.

“You’re Samuel Kirkwood. Forty-seven years old. Recently divorced. Three maxed-out credit cards, a mortgage in arrears, and a penchant for self-pity. Ring any bells?”

Samuel staggered back, gripping the edge of the sink. “What the hell are you?”

The cat sighed, a long-suffering sound.

“I thought the robe-and-scythe crowd had better branding than this. I’m Death. Pleased to make your acquaintance, though I’d rather not be here at all, to be perfectly frank.”

“Death?” Samuel repeated, his voice climbing an octave.

“Yes, Death. Brother of Bastet, in case that means anything to you—which it probably doesn’t, given humanity’s appalling lack of cultural memory.”

The cat’s ears twitched in irritation.

“She always got the worshippers, the temples, the nice little bowls of milk. I got...” It gestured with a paw. “This. Bureaucratic drudgery for millennia.”
Samuel stared at the cat, his mind racing. “Wait. Bastet? The Egyptian goddess?”

“Finally, a spark of recognition!” The cat rolled its eyes. “Yes, Bastet. My sister. She passed on aeons ago—moved on, as the mortals say. She had the good sense to retire. Meanwhile, here I am, collecting souls like some overworked civil servant.”

Samuel sank into a chair, his head spinning. “This can’t be real. Why would Death look like... like you?”

The cat regarded him with an inscrutable expression. “Why not? Would you prefer a skeleton? A hulking figure with wings and a penchant for melodrama? I assure you, this form is far more efficient—and undeniably superior. Besides...” It licked a paw, disdainful. “I look good in black.”

Samuel let out a hysterical laugh. “This is insane. You’re insane. I’m insane.”

“Typical mortal response,” the cat said, hopping onto Samuel’s lap with fluid grace. It peered up at him, its golden eyes narrowing.

“Now, shall we get on with it? You’re not my only appointment tonight.”

“Get on with what?” Samuel asked, his voice trembling.

The cat stretched luxuriously, claws briefly extending before retracting.
“Your time’s up, Samuel. I’m here to escort you to the next stage.”

Samuel froze. “You mean I’m... I’m dead?”

“Not quite yet,” the cat replied, a faint smirk curling at the edge of its lips. “But we’re on a tight schedule, so let’s not dawdle. You wouldn’t want to make me late. I hate being late.”

Samuel swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. “So... if I’m not dead yet, why are you here? Isn’t it a bit premature for the Grim Reaper to show up?”

The cat leapt onto the breakfast table, landing with a poise that felt almost theatrical.

“Firstly,” it said, licking a paw with maddening nonchalance, “I’m not ‘grim.’ That’s a stereotype perpetuated by centuries of bad poetry and religious propaganda. Secondly, I don’t come for everyone. Only the special ones.”

Samuel blinked. “Special? Me? There’s got to be some mistake.”

The cat paused mid-lick, fixing him with an incredulous stare. “A mistake? Do I look like someone who makes mistakes?” It gave an exaggerated huff. “Honestly, the audacity of mortals. I’ve been doing this job since your species learned how to bang rocks together, and not once have I misplaced a soul. Well—there was that one time, but it’s not as if he noticed.”

Samuel leaned back, his panic momentarily replaced by curiosity. “So why am I ‘special’?”

The cat didn’t answer immediately. Instead, it hopped onto the windowsill, gazing out at the darkened street below.

“Special cases vary,” it said finally, its tone uncharacteristically solemn. “Some people change the world. Others... well, they don’t, but they’re important in ways that ripple through lives unseen. You’re one of those. Like a stone tossed into a pond—small, but significant.”

Samuel frowned. “That’s awfully cryptic.”

“Of course it is,” the cat snapped, turning back to him. “Do you think I’m going to spell it out? Where’s the fun in that?”

Samuel opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat as the cat’s form shimmered. One moment it was sleek and black, the next it was a towering figure in a flowing robe, skeletal fingers clutching a scythe. Its hollow eyes glowed faintly, and a chilling wind swept through the room.

Samuel yelped, nearly falling out of his chair. “What the—?!”

The figure tilted its head, its voice echoing like distant thunder. “Is this better?”

“No!” Samuel sputtered. “That’s horrifying!”

The figure dissolved into a swirl of shadows, reforming into a kindly old woman with a warm smile and twinkling eyes.

“How about this?” she asked, her voice soft and soothing.

Samuel recoiled. “That’s... weird. You sound like my gran.”

The old woman sighed, and with a flash of light, she was a black cat once more.

“Mortals are so picky,” the cat muttered. “I’ve had to perfect this form over millennia. It’s universally disarming.”

Samuel raised an eyebrow. “You think this is disarming?”

“Have you ever tried arguing with a cat?” the feline replied, tail flicking with smug satisfaction.

Samuel couldn’t argue with that. “Fair point. So, is this why you’re frustrated? Dealing with picky humans like me?”

“Oh, you’re just the tip of the iceberg,” the cat said, curling up in a patch of moonlight on the table. “Do you know how many souls I deal with who insist they’re not ready to go? Or how many try to bribe me? One fellow actually offered me half a sandwich. Half. As if I’d stoop to that.”

Samuel chuckled despite himself. “So you hate your job?”

The cat’s golden eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say that. It has its moments. Like catching up with old friends.”

“Friends?”

“Of course. Do you think I’m the only one keeping ancient traditions alive? There’s Nicholas—still delivering presents, though he’s taken to outsourcing most of it these days. Lazy old fool. And Charles the Easter Bunny. He’s insufferable, always bragging about how ‘relevant’ he is to kids. As if handing out sugar bombs to hyperactive youngsters is a higher calling.”

Samuel grinned. “You don’t sound very fond of them.”

“I tolerate them,” the cat said, stretching languidly. “But we all have our crosses to bear. At least I don’t have to deal with tooth fairies. They’re feral.”
Samuel burst out laughing, the tension in his chest easing for the first time since this bizarre encounter began.

The cat watched him, its expression unreadable. “You’re taking this better than most,” it remarked.

“I guess I’m just too tired to freak out anymore,” Samuel admitted. “Though I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

The cat stood, padding closer. It leapt onto Samuel’s lap, gazing up at him with unsettling intensity.

“You’ll understand soon enough,” it said softly. “But for now, let’s just say... tonight’s the beginning of the end.”

Samuel eyed the cat warily, the weight of its cryptic words settling like a stone in his chest.

“The beginning of the end? That’s... ominous. Care to elaborate?”

The cat yawned, showing a flash of sharp teeth. “Not particularly.”

“Seriously?” Samuel shot back, his frustration mounting. “You drop a bombshell like that and just leave it hanging?”

Death stretched, claws unsheathing before retracting.

“It’s not my job to explain everything, Samuel. I’m here to escort you when the time comes, not to hold your hand through an existential crisis.”

Samuel crossed his arms. “Well, maybe it should be. You can’t just show up uninvited, throw out cryptic lines like a bad movie villain, and expect me to go quietly.”

The cat’s golden eyes narrowed. “Who said anything about going quietly? You’re still alive—for now.”

Samuel froze. “Wait, what does that mean? For now?”

Death hopped onto the windowsill, its tail flicking. “It means you’ve been given something most mortals don’t get: a chance to reflect. I don’t show up for everyone, you know. Only the ones who need a little... perspective.”

Samuel frowned. “Perspective? On what?”

“On life. On death. On why you’re still clinging to the idea that either one is fair,” the cat said, its tone sharp.

Samuel stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “Fair? You’re seriously going to lecture me about fairness? You’re Death! You show up, take people away without warning, and call it a job well done. How is that fair?”

The cat sighed, its expression the very picture of feline exasperation. “Ah, the age-old question. Why me? Why now? Why can’t life just go on forever?” It leapt down, pacing the table with a regal air. “Do you really want the answer, Samuel? Because I assure you, it’s not as satisfying as you think.”

“Try me,” Samuel challenged, his jaw tightening.

Death stopped, fixing him with a piercing gaze. “Fine. Imagine a world without me. No disease, no accidents, no old age creeping in to slow you down. Eternal life for everyone.”

Samuel blinked. “That... doesn’t sound so bad.”

The cat tilted its head, its whiskers twitching. “Really? No one dies. No one leaves. Population skyrockets. Resources dwindle. Your planet, already teetering under the weight of its seven billion souls, becomes a suffocating cage. How long before your idyllic vision collapses into chaos?”

Samuel opened his mouth, then closed it again, unable to argue.

“And even if you could somehow solve the logistics,” Death continued, its voice low and deliberate, “what about the ones who want to leave? The ones who’ve lived their lives and are ready to move on? Should they be trapped forever, just so you can cling to the idea of fairness?”

Samuel sat heavily, the weight of Death’s words pressing down on him. “I never thought about it like that,” he admitted.

“Most don’t,” the cat said simply. “You mortals fight so hard to outrun me, but you forget: I’m not your enemy. I’m your release.”

Samuel looked at the floor, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. “But... it still feels cruel. Losing people. Losing yourself. Why does it have to hurt so much?”

Death padded over to him, its golden eyes softening just slightly. “Because it matters. Life matters. The pain, the joy, the fleeting moments you take for granted—it all matters because it doesn’t last forever. Without me, none of it would mean a thing.”

Samuel stared at the cat, the enormity of its words sinking in. “So... why am I a ‘special case’? Why are you here for me?”

The cat’s tail flicked again, but this time the movement was slower, more thoughtful.

“Because you’re standing on the edge, Samuel. One wrong step, one bad decision, and your time could end far sooner than it should. I’m here to make sure you understand what’s at stake before it’s too late.”

Samuel swallowed hard. “And if I don’t understand?”

Death’s eyes glinted with something unreadable—sadness, perhaps, or maybe just the weight of millennia. “Then I’ll be back. And next time, it won’t be for a chat.”

Death perched on the edge of the table, its tail swishing like a metronome. “You’ve got questions, I assume. Let’s hear them. Not that I’m particularly thrilled to answer.”

Samuel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You said I was on the edge. What does that mean? And why do I get this... this cosmic intervention? I’m nobody special.”

The cat scoffed, its golden eyes narrowing. “Nobody special? Mortals and their inferiority complexes. You think I show up to chat with anyone?”

“Well, no,” Samuel admitted. “But you’re clearly not thrilled to be here either, so why bother?”

Death let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Because I was told to.”

“Told? By who?”

The cat’s ears flattened slightly. “Let’s just say there are rules—even for me. Sometimes, a soul isn’t quite ready to cross over, and someone upstairs—or downstairs, depending on the paperwork—decides they need one last push. That’s where I come in, like some cosmic babysitter.”

Samuel raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me Death takes orders?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Death shot back. “I have guidelines. And you, Samuel Kirkwood, happen to fall into a very specific category: souls at risk of wasting their potential.”

Samuel frowned. “Wasting my potential? I’m forty-seven, divorced, broke, and stuck in a dead-end job. What potential are we talking about?”

Death hopped down, pacing the floor.

 “Ah, there it is. The tragic self-pity. You mortals always think you’re defined by your circumstances. Newsflash: you’re not. Your choices, Samuel, are what define you. And lately, your choices have been...” The cat paused, as though searching for the right word. “Abysmal.”

Samuel bristled. “That’s a bit harsh.”

“Harsh?” Death spun around, its golden eyes blazing. “Do you want to know why I’m frustrated, Samuel? Because I’ve seen this all before. You’re not the first mortal to wallow in their own misery instead of doing something about it. And when the end finally comes, do you know what they say?”

Samuel shook his head, speechless.

“‘I wish I’d had more time,’” Death said, its voice dripping with contempt. “As if time is the problem. You’ve had forty-seven years, and what have you done with it? Wasted it on regrets and excuses.”

Samuel’s face burned, but he couldn’t deny the truth in Death’s words. “So what? You’re here to guilt-trip me into fixing my life?”

Death stopped pacing, its tail flicking irritably.

“No, Samuel. I’m here because, for reasons beyond my comprehension, someone with a higher pay grade than me thinks you’re worth the effort. Me? I’m not so sure.”

Samuel blinked, taken aback by the cat’s bluntness. “Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Death shrugged. “Don’t take it personally. I’m just not a fan of inefficiency. And right now, you’re about as efficient as a chocolate teapot.”

Despite himself, Samuel chuckled. “I think that’s the first time Death’s insulted me with a metaphor.”

The cat tilted its head, its whiskers twitching. “Humour. Good. You’ll need it where you’re going. But, I would point out; that as this is our first interaction, a metaphorical insult is just the fun side of me shining through.”

Samuel sobered. “You have a fun side? And where exactly is it that I will be going?”

“That depends,” Death said, hopping back onto the table. “This isn’t a free pass, Samuel. If you want to prove you’re worth all this cosmic fuss, you’ll need to do better. Make better choices. Or don’t. Either way, you will find I am inevitable.”

Samuel narrowed his eyes. “What happens if I just... refuse to go?”

The cat smirked. “Oh, you can refuse, if you like. Bargaining is practically a tradition at this point. But be warned: I’m not easily swayed.”

Samuel leaned back, considering his options. “What kind of bargain are we talking about?”

Death’s golden eyes gleamed with something close to amusement. “You tell me, Samuel. You’ve got one shot to impress me. Make it count.”

Samuel stared at the sleek black cat sitting smugly on his table. For something so small, it carried the weight of inevitability like a crown.

“So,” he said finally, leaning forward, “what happens if I don’t impress you? If my ‘bargain’ doesn’t meet your... standards?”

Death tilted its head, its golden eyes narrowing. “Then we shake paws, I escort you to the other side, and that’s that. No do-overs, no appeals. This isn’t the Court of Human Rights.”

Samuel winced. “Right. No pressure.”

“None whatsoever,” the cat replied, stretching luxuriously.

“Take your time. It’s only your immortal soul on the line.”

Samuel rubbed his temples, trying to focus. “Okay. Let’s say I agree to... whatever it is you’re offering. What do I get in return? A second chance? More time?”

Death’s whiskers twitched. “Perhaps. But let’s be clear: this isn’t a free ride. If I grant you more time, you’ll have to use it wisely. No more wallowing, no more excuses. You’ll need to actually live, Samuel. And if you waste it...”

“You’ll be back,” Samuel finished for him.

“Exactly,” Death said, curling its tail neatly around its paws. “So, what’s your offer? What’s worth delaying the inevitable?”

Samuel sat back, his mind racing. His life wasn’t perfect—not by a long shot. But there were things he hadn’t done yet, things he hadn’t said. People he hadn’t made amends with.

“All right,” he said slowly. “Here’s the deal: if you give me more time, I’ll make it count. I’ll fix things with my ex. I’ll finally apologise to my sister for... well, everything. I’ll try to be a better friend, a better person. And—” He hesitated, his throat tightening. “And I’ll make sure my daughter knows how much I love her.”

Death blinked, its golden eyes softening—just slightly. “A noble list,” it said, its voice quieter now. “But words are cheap, Samuel. How will you prove you’re serious?”

Samuel took a deep breath. “By starting right now. No excuses, no procrastinating. You’ll see for yourself.”

The cat tilted its head, considering him for a long moment. Then, with a sudden shimmer of light, it transformed again—not into a skeleton or a kindly grandmother, but into a towering, shadowy figure cloaked in stars. Its voice echoed with a thousand whispers.

“I could take you now,” Death said, its form radiating power. “End your pain, your regrets, your fear of failing again. It would be… simple.”

Samuel shivered but stood his ground. “And I could give up. But I won’t. Not yet.”

The shadowy figure stared at him, the room growing unnaturally still. Then, slowly, it began to shrink, folding in on itself until the sleek black cat returned.

“Fine,” Death said, its tone begrudging but laced with approval. “You have your time, Samuel Kirkwood. But remember: this is borrowed. And when the clock runs out, I will return.”

Samuel exhaled, relief washing over him like a wave. “Thank you.”

Death hopped off the table, padding toward the door. It paused, glancing back over its shoulder. “Don’t make me regret this, Samuel. I hate being disappointed.”

“I won’t,” Samuel promised, his voice steady.

The cat nodded once, then slipped out of sight. The room was silent again, save for the faint ticking of a clock Samuel hadn’t noticed before.

He sat there for a long moment, the weight of the encounter pressing on him. Then, slowly, he stood, grabbed his phone, and began to dial.

Outside, the night stretched on, vast and unknowable. Somewhere, a sleek black cat padded through shadows, its golden eyes gleaming with the wisdom of ages.

Death would return, as it always did. But for now, Samuel Kirkwood had a chance to live—and that, Death thought with a quiet purr, was a victory all its own.