The pages closed on their own, almost as if the notebook had chosen the memory for me and decided I had seen enough.
This was not just a book. It was a diary. His diary.
Death had written down pieces of his life, fragments of memories collected across generations and centuries too vast for me to comprehend. Somehow, calling them fragments felt fitting for someone who had lived long enough for entire lifetimes to blur together.
But this entry felt different.
The writing did not sound like the Death I knew. It felt younger somehow. More personal. Almost like I was reading the thoughts of someone much younger than the man I had met.
There were clearly unresolved feelings buried in those pages. A quiet resentment toward his brother, whom I had not even known existed, and toward a father who seemed to look straight through him no matter what he accomplished.
For a moment, I almost pitied him.
Almost.
But then I remembered the bargain. The lies. The way he had tricked me into agreeing to something that had cost me my soul. Whatever sympathy I might have felt quickly soured after that.
And even after reading a piece of his past, I still felt like I knew absolutely nothing about him. If anything, the entry only left me with more questions than answers.
What confused me most was the notebook itself. I still did not understand why I could not simply open it and choose a page on my own. Every time, the book chose for me instead, flipping through the pages until it landed exactly where it wanted. As if it already knew what I was supposed to see before I did.
And somehow, I doubted it was random that it had shown me that memory specifically.
I was so lost in my thoughts that the sudden knock on the door made me jump.
My heart nearly stopped.
For one terrifying second, I just stared at the door while panic rushed through me. Another knock followed, louder this time, and I moved immediately.
I shoved the notebook beneath the bed without even thinking, pushing it far enough into the shadows that it could not be seen at first glance. Then I grabbed the small bottle containing the few drops of Death's blood and quickly slipped it back into the hidden pocket inside my jacket.
Another knock echoed through the room.
I quickly stood up and crossed the room, trying to compose myself before opening the door. My hand hesitated slightly on the handle before I finally pulled it open.
To my surprise, it was not one of the gargoyles waiting outside.
And it was not Death either.
Instead, a young girl stood there dressed in the same dark servant clothes I had seen throughout the castle. She looked almost my age, maybe only a little younger, with soft features and nervous eyes that immediately lowered the second I looked at her properly.
The girl straightened slightly, as if gathering her courage, then offered a small bow.
"Hello, my lady!" she said quickly, a little too brightly for the silence of the hallway. "My name is Miranda. I was sent as your personal servant to assist you with anything you may need."
Her voice was polite, but there was a nervous edge underneath it, like she was trying too hard not to make a mistake. Her hands fidgeted with the fabric of her sleeves as she waited for my response, eyes flicking up to me for a second before dropping again.
I stared at her for a moment longer than I meant to, still trying to process everything. The silence between us felt heavy in a way I couldn't explain.
"Are you a human?" I asked carefully.
Her expression flickered, just for a second, before she gave a small, uncertain smile.
"Yes," she said at first. Then she hesitated, looking down at her hands like she wasn't entirely sure that was still the right answer. "Or I mean, I was a human. Now I'm just, well…"
"A ghost," we both said at the same time.
The words slipped out almost in sync, like neither of us had expected the other to say it.
For a brief moment, there was silence.
Then she smiled. A small, tired kind of smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
I stepped aside slowly, letting her inside.
The moment she crossed the threshold, she looked around the room briefly, taking everything in with quiet curiosity, though she tried not to show it. Then she turned back to me, as if snapping herself into focus again.
"My lady, should I start with your hair and dress?" she asked, as if the title was something she had been trained not to forget.
I exhaled, already feeling tired of it. "You don't have to call me 'my lady.' I'm just a human. Just like you."
That made her pause.
Her eyes flicked up to me, uncertain. "But, we were told to treat you like the other immortals," she said carefully, like she was repeating instructions she wasn't supposed to question.
I shook my head. "Well, I'd prefer you didn't. Just call me by my name."
I hesitated for a second before adding, "I'm Adora by the way."
The girl blinked, clearly thrown off by that. For a moment she just stood there, like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to accept what I was saying.
The question slipped out of her before she could stop herself.
"How old are you?" she asked, tilting her head slightly, as if only just now realizing she didn't actually know.
I hesitated for a moment, then answered honestly. "I'm nineteen. I'll be twenty in about forty-five days. Unless Death decides to take me before then " I added, though the last part stayed in my mind rather than leaving my mouth.
Forty-five days. It suddenly sounded very short in a place like this.
The girl blinked at me, processing that in silence. Then she looked down at her hands again, as if the answer had stirred something in her memory.
"I'm eighteen," she said quietly after a moment. "Or I was eighteen. Before I wasn't anymore"
She stopped herself mid-sentence, her voice trailing off. Her expression tightened slightly, like she didn't quite know how to finish the thought without making it real.
Before I didn't die.
The words hung unspoken between us.
I looked at her more carefully this time before asking.
"How did you die?" I said quietly. "If you don't mind me asking."
For a moment, she didn't respond.
Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she went very still, like the question had landed somewhere deeper than she expected.
"I.." she started, then stopped.
Her throat moved as she swallowed.
"I can't remember," she said finally, softer. "Which is weird, because everyone here remembers how they died. Even if it's just fragments. But I don't have anything like that."
Her fingers twisted the fabric of her sleeve.
"It's like there's a blank space where it should be," she continued, frowning slightly. "Like something cut it out completely."
Her eyes flicked up to me briefly, uncertain.
"All I remember is that I didn't want to die."
Her expression shifted after a moment, like she'd decided not to dig any deeper into her own thoughts.
"Anyway. Should we start with your hair?" A faint spark of energy returned to her eyes, more practical now, more grounded. "I already have a really nice idea for it," she added, a little more confidently.
"I would love to," I said.
It took far longer than it should have to get ready.
At first, it was just hair. Miranda kept circling me, tilting her head, suggesting different styles under her breath as if she was thinking out loud. Then she would stop, shake her head, undo it, try again. One braid. Then another. Then something pinned up that immediately fell apart.
We ended up laughing once or twice, small, unexpected moments where the silence didn't feel so heavy anymore.
After that came the dress.
That was worse.
She brought out more than I thought a single room could possibly contain. Dark fabrics, lighter ones, embroidered pieces that looked far too delicate to be worn, others that felt too formal, too heavy, too unfamiliar. Every time I thought we had chosen one, she would find a reason to hesitate.
"It doesn't feel right," she kept saying.
Or, "This one doesn't suit the mood."
Eventually, after what felt like more than an hour, she finally stepped back.
There was a pause.
She looked at me properly this time—really looked—and nodded slowly, like something had finally clicked into place.
"Yes," she said softly. "That's it."
I glanced at myself one last time, adjusting slightly, still not entirely used to the reflection staring back.
But even I could tell… it fit.
We were done.
"Are we going to another dinner party?" I asked, frowning slightly.
Miranda shook her head immediately, almost too quickly.
"Oh no, my lady, I mean, Adora," she corrected herself, then straightened as if remembering she was delivering instructions. "You are to accompany His Royal Highness Death on a mission."
"A mission?" I echoed, confused. "What kind of mission?"
She hesitated, and for the first time there was a crack in her certainty. "I wasn't informed," she admitted quietly. "It seems to be a secret mission."
That made things worse, not better.
We had already stepped out into the corridor by then, the stone halls stretching in both directions like they had no end. I stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of it.
A mission. With Death. To who knows where.
Then something clicked in my mind—small, but sharp. The Diary. If I was going to be taken somewhere unknown, I needed answers. I needed—
"I forgot something," I said suddenly.
Miranda blinked. "Oh? Should I come with you?"
"No, no," I said quickly, already stepping back toward the room. "I just… forgot my favorite ribbon."
It wasn't true.
But it was the only thing I could think of that wouldn't make her ask more questions.
I turned before she could say anything else and quickly slipped back into the room, shutting the door just enough behind me to muffle the hallway.
I moved straight to the bed and dropped to my knees, ignoring the way my dress pressed against the floor. My fingers slid under the edge of the mattress, searching until they found it.
The notebook.
I pushed it into the deepest pocket of my dress I could find, the one hidden beneath layers of fabric and folds, until it sat securely against me. Safe. At least for now.
I smoothed the dress down quickly, making sure nothing showed, then stood up again.
I didn't look at the bed twice.
There wasn't time to think about what I was carrying anymore.
I opened the door and stepped back into the hallway like nothing had happened.
"Did you find the ribbon?" Miranda asked as soon as I stepped back into the hallway.
I didn't even slow down.
"Oh, no," I said quickly, forcing a small, careless shrug. "I think I put it somewhere and forgot. It's fine."
It wasn't convincing, even to me.
I could see it in the way Miranda looked at me. Her expression shifted slightly confused at first, then something quieter and more suspicious settling behind her eyes. Like she had noticed the lie but didn't quite know what to do with it.
But she didn't question me.
After a brief pause, she simply nodded.
"Alright," she said softly"
And just like that, she turned and continued walking.
When we finally reached the end of the fifth corridor, I saw him.
Death.
He was standing there waiting.
This time he wasn't dressed casually or half lounging like before. He wore black, entirely black, layered in a way that made him look sharper, more distant. More like what he was supposed to be.
And then there was me.
I glanced down at myself for half a second.
The dress Miranda had helped me choose was purple, soft in color but almost unsettling in how thin the fabric was in places, catching the light in a way that made me feel exposed rather than dressed. It didn't match him at all.
I felt his gaze land on me as we approached.
Death looked me up and down for a moment, then let out a small breath through his nose, almost like a quiet laugh.
"Well," he said flatly, "you two definitely took your time with the dress."
"You never said there was a dress code," I said, matching his tone as best as I could.
Death glanced at me again, one brow lifting slightly.
"I didn't think I had to," he replied simply, like it was obvious.
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
"But noted," he added, his gaze briefly flicking over the purple dress again.
Then he turned without another word and started walking.
For a second I just stood there, then followed, falling into step behind him. Miranda stayed a little further back, quiet as ever.
We walked in silence through the corridor. The sound of our footsteps echoed off the stone, steady and uneven at the same time. Death didn't look back once, like he already knew I was following.
Then the sound changed.
Footsteps.
Different from ours.
Sharp. Deliberate.
Heels.
They clicked against the stone in a slow, controlled rhythm, growing louder with every second.
A woman.
Then we saw her.
The woman with the purple eyes.
She stepped into view from the end of the corridor, her heels stopping with a clean, precise sound against the stone. For a moment, she didn't speak. She just looked at me.
Before, there had been something cold in her gaze, disapproval, distance.
Now it was sharper.
Like whatever she had thought of me before wasn't even close to what she felt now.
"So you decided to bring her with you," she said, voice controlled but sharp underneath.
She let out a slow breath, clearly growing more irritated.
"This festival isn't for mortals," she said coldly. "They are forbidden from attending it."
That finally made him pause.
Death looked at her, expression calm, almost indifferent.
"Good thing I've never been particularly interested in rules" he said simply.
Without waiting for a response, Death started walking again, like the conversation had already ended for him.
The woman's eyes stayed on me for a second longer. This time, the irritation was clearer, like I was the problem standing right in front of her, even though I hadn't said anything that mattered.
Then, just as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.