The Six Month Vow

The wind didn’t move inside the hospital room, but the curtains swayed anyway. Somewhere in the corner, shadows twisted where they shouldn't have. A bouquet of wilted lilies in a chipped glass vase shivered, petals fluttering like tiny ghosts giving up the fight. Monitors beeped in time with something struggling to survive. And in the center of it all—amid white sheets and pale light—sat Mira Danvers. Alone. Mostly. She stared out the window, gaze unfocused, her thin fingers idly picking at the frayed edge of her blanket. Her skin had lost the sun weeks ago, and the sharp lines of her collarbone jutted up like broken wings. When the shadows thickened in the room, she didn’t flinch. She turned her head slowly toward the corner. Toward him. “You’re late,” she said. The figure stepped forward, a man-shaped darkness with silver eyes burning like moons. His cloak trailed along the linoleum without touching it. The air grew colder with every step. And still, Mira did not recoil. The figure’s voice, when it came, was not cruel. Not even solemn. Merely… resigned. “No one has ever said that to me before,” he said. “Time is never early or late. It arrives precisely when it must.” “Well,” Mira said, “your watch must be broken.” The Reaper tilted his head. The movement was too precise, too fluid to be entirely human. “You’ve been expecting me.” “Since I was eight,” Mira replied softly, looking back out the window. “You’ve visited me in dreams before. You wore the same cloak. Same boots. Your voice hasn’t changed.” The Reaper didn’t move. “This is... unusual,” he said after a moment. “I should clarify something. Most mortals don’t remember dream encounters. Not unless—” “I’m close to the veil,” Mira finished. “Yeah. I figured.” The Reaper walked forward, gliding really, until he stood at the foot of her bed. A long, black scythe appeared in his hand—not conjured with fanfare, but simply there, as if it had always existed just beyond sight. He didn’t raise it. “I am Thorne,” he said, as though the name mattered. “And I am here to sever your thread.” Mira gave a tired half-smile. “God, you sound like my oncologist.” Thorne blinked once. Slowly. “You joke.” “Helps with the dying part.” “You are not afraid.” “Oh, I am. I’m just tired of showing it.” He looked at her. Really looked. Beneath the withered body and hospital bracelet. Into the soul, perhaps. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Something is wrong,” he murmured. “You tell me. You’re the one with the scythe.” “No,” Thorne said slowly, walking to her side. “You should not have remembered me. Not like this. And your name…” He reached beneath his cloak and withdrew a parchment. Mira’s breath hitched when she saw it. The page shimmered like ink suspended in glass. Her name sat at the top in spidery silver script. Mira Elisse Danvers. Date. Location. Time of death: Today. “So that’s the infamous death list,” she said, eyes on it. “Pretty font.” Thorne’s eyes flashed. “This list is never wrong.” “Until now?” He didn’t answer. His eyes moved over the parchment again, as if expecting it to shift or correct itself. But the name remained, bold and final. Thorne looked back at her, his expression unreadable. “I… cannot take your soul.” “Didn’t plan on giving it to you,” Mira said. “This has never happened before.” “There’s a first time for everything.” “You’re mortal.” “And you’re breaking the rules,” she said with something close to a smirk. “You’re still standing here.” Thorne exhaled. It sounded like wind through bones. “You should be dead.” “I should be in Santorini with a bottle of wine and a lover named Nico,” Mira replied. “Life’s full of disappointments.” Thorne’s grip on the parchment tightened. “This is a mistake. I will return.” He turned. “Wait,” she said, and for the first time, her voice cracked. He paused. “Are you going to fix it? Or… just come back with reinforcements?” Thorne did not turn around. “I don’t know.” --- The next day, Mira was awake when the nurse came in. She hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t even dozed through the haze of her medications. She just stared at the window. When the nurse commented on how her vitals had inexplicably improved overnight, Mira didn’t answer. She didn’t say anything when the doctor called it a “temporary stabilization.” And she didn’t mention the man in the cloak who had stood by her bedside all night without making a sound. --- The second time Thorne appeared, it was three nights later. Mira had been watching an old black-and-white film on mute. She didn’t turn when he arrived. “I dreamt of you again,” she said softly. Thorne stood beside her IV drip, unmoving. “I stood on a bridge,” she continued. “A narrow one, made of ash. I was barefoot. You were waiting on the other side.” “I remember.” “Did you mean to be there? Or was it something else?” “Sometimes,” Thorne said quietly, “souls see beyond what they are meant to. Especially those close to unraveling.” Mira turned toward him then. “What if I don’t want to unravel?” His silence was answer enough. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “That it’s not up to me. That the list is law. But if you’re here, Thorne, and I’m still breathing, doesn’t that mean something?” Thorne looked at her. Truly looked, as if for the first time. “You should not be alive.” “Then don’t take me.” “It is not a choice,” he said. “I serve balance. Without death, life loses meaning.” Mira’s lips thinned. “You say that like you’ve never been alive.” He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Mira sat forward, ignoring the pain. “What if there was a way?” she asked. “Something that could keep me here. Not forever. Just longer. Long enough to finish something. Long enough to… matter.” “You seek the impossible.” “No,” she said, locking eyes with him. “I seek the loophole.” A long silence stretched between them. Then Thorne moved. Slowly. Deliberately. He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small, black-bound book. The cover had no title. Just a single silver symbol: two circles, overlapping at the center. “What is that?” “The Mark of the Vow,” Thorne said. “A soulbind.” “Explain.” “It is forbidden,” he said. “A binding between a reaper and a mortal. It transfers a portion of essence from one to the other. The mortal lives. Temporarily. But the reaper begins to… fade.” “And the catch?” “If one dies… the other follows.” Mira blinked. “You’d die too?” “I am not meant to live,” he said. “I am meant to endure.” She studied him. Something in her chest stirred. Not affection—something older. Recognition. “I’ve been seeing you my whole life,” she whispered. “Even when I didn’t know what you were. I think… part of me was always waiting.” “You should not speak such things.” “Why? Because it’s dangerous? Or because it’s true?” Thorne said nothing. Mira extended her hand. “Bind me.” He stared. “I don’t want to die today,” she said. “And I think… you don’t want me to either.” For a long moment, the world held its breath. Then Thorne stepped forward. And took her hand.