“I’m not sure how much longer I can wait,” The Reaper muttered, hood drawn low, gripping their scythe like a lifeline.

  "This should’ve been handled three weeks ago!”

  They threw their hands up in exasperation. “I can’t be missing this long, people notice when Death doesn’t show up where it’s expected. I’ll become a cosmic joke!”

  Across the room, the old woman knitted serenely, humming a tune. She seemed utterly unaware she was supposed to be dead.

  “Oh, remember that Grim Reaper? Cloak, scythe, all that?” They stomped over to a wall mirror.

  “Turns out the scythe wasn’t just for souls anymore. Now he goes by Steve, the lawn mower!”

  They groaned and paced. “I’ve learned to knit, to crochet, and to brew a proper cup of tea. Don’t get me started on the soap operas—Dawn’s baby might be an alien and her cousin! Ever since that vacation to New Mexico… something’s off. I’m hooked.”

  They froze mid-step, noticing the blue yarn and needles in their hands.

  “When did I even grab this? What has this woman done to me? I knit. I eat her strawberry candies. Yesterday I rewound the DVR because Dawn was talking during a crucial moment. Maybe… maybe I should just get it over with.”

  The Reaper shuffled behind the couch, reluctantly readying their scythe.

  “I don’t know if I can do this. We’ve spent weeks together. She feels like a friend. Maybe even family. I’ve never had a grandmother… or a mother.”

  They lowered the blade, conflicted.

  “I wonder what family feels like?”

  The old woman didn’t look up. “You know, these past few weeks with you have been lovely.”

  Her hands shook as she set her needles aside then rested the finished knitting in her lap.

  “I really appreciate you spending this time with me. It’s been ages since I sat with someone and knitted while watching my soaps. But I do wish you’d stop waving that blade around—you’ll put someone’s eye out.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  She plucked a strawberry candy from the bowl on the coffee table and handed it to them.

  “I know who you are and why you’re here. But that’s no excuse to be reckless with a scythe.”

  The Reaper froze.

  “Did… did she just lecture me?”

  “Yes, I’m talking to you,” she said, smiling. “And yes, I’ve heard everything.”

  “Your company has kept me going. Listening to you ramble has filled these extra weeks with joy. But I think it’s time now. Time for you to do your job.”

  She rose slowly, smoothed her skirt, patted down her hair, then turned to face them like she was about to scold a grandchild.

  She couldn’t read their face beneath the hood—but she imagined confusion, and maybe a sliver of affection.

  ‘Three weeks in that hood,’ she thought. ‘I should’ve told him to take it off. But scolding a guest feels unkind. Their mother really ought to have taught them better.’

  She sighed, surprised by her fondness.

  “Now, before you scythe me or soul-snatch or whatever, let me tidy up. Dying’s no excuse for leaving a mess.”

  Her bones creaked as she dusted shelves, straightened fading pictures, and washed the day’s single dish. Then she lay down, arms folded neatly across her chest.

  “Alright, young Reaper. I’m ready.”

  The Reaper stepped to her side and raised their scythe.

  “Wait!”

  Her eyes flew open.

  “I nearly forgot!”

  She darted out of the room, then barreled back in, nearly knocking the Reaper over.

  “Here,” she said, placing a black scarf into their bony hands. “You always wear that cloak, and you’re so thin, I figured you might be cold.”

  She settled back into bed, watching as they wrapped the scarf gently around their neck.

  “It is done.”

  “I may be old, but I’m not stupid,” she said. “Don’t you have to do something with the blade? I’ve watched enough television.”

  “Look around. You are in this world, but no longer of it. Come with me.”

  She sat up and saw herself—serene and still—on the bed.

  The old lady’s eyes widened. “Is that me?! I didn’t feel a thing. I expected death to be more… theatrical. Are we going to the afterlife?”

  The Reaper hesitated, fingers tightening around their scythe.

  “No. I’m taking you to my breakroom.”

  They swung their scythe, tearing the fabric of reality.

  “Your breakroom? Weren't you on break these past three weeks?”

  “No. I was waiting for you. It’s almost three. We’ll miss what happens with Dawn and the baby.”

  They stepped through into a white room: black couch, floating television, soap opera theme already playing—Dawn of the Season.

  “At least it’s tidy,” she said as they sat side by side. “Could use less light, though.”

  The Reaper snapped their fingers.

  A tea set materialized between them.

  The Reaper Wears a Scarf is the first in a loose series of short stories about the Grim Reaper navigating connection, identity, and the strange comforts of mortal life. More Reaper stories are on the way.