I shook my head. Not yet.
In return, they leave little things. A button I'd lost. A dried flower that looks like it's smiling. One morning, I found a note on my mirror in wobbly handwriting: "You're not due yet. But we like your socks." cute reapers in my room
I've learned their rules now. They don't take souls. Not big ones. They just collect the small deaths: the last crumb of a cookie forgotten under the bed, the final second of a candle's flame, the quiet end of a sigh. They tidy up endings too tiny for angels to notice. I shook my head