The Book of Counted Shadows

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He didn't come through doors. Doors were for those who hope to still belong somewhere. The Grimm Reaper stepped from the fold between moments as the last flame trembled. A leather hand, so black it swallowed light, placed itself on the ancient book. It was already waiting. The Book of Counted Shadows had not been written. It had been created—from the silence between two breaths, from the last memory no one spoke. Its binding was rough like burnt parchment, the pages tinged with mist. And each line a fragment—not life, not death, but the in-between: a shadow that would not let go. The Reaper—hooded, timekeeper, bone-kisser—sat down at the table of black resin. The candles around him didn't flicker. They remained still, as if listening. He didn't read with his eyes. He forgot eyes when time forgot him. He felt the words, let them slip through his hands like dust from names long since forgotten. On the first page: a breath that never became a scream. Then a look that was never returned. A decision that was never allowed to be made. Every page was a shadow. Not a memory—more an echo of what almost happened. The book didn't count them in numbers. It counted in weights. And the Reaper felt his coat grow heavier. Each entry pulled. Not downward, but inward. A name appeared that made his fingers stunt. He knew it. Not from life. Not from death. But from that moment in between, when decision and oblivion reach out. The name was written in smoke. He groped for it—and the writing dissolved as if it had never existed. That was its nature: shadows you only see if you never look for them. The Reaper didn't write an obituary. He wrote the end of silence. With a pen of ancient obsidian, he drew marks on a page that wasn't one. The quill didn't scratch—it swallowed. Each letter erased an unspoken word from the world. He wrote not out of grace, but out of order. For those who no longer bore a name could return nowhere. But those counted in the book—were still there, in a different way. The hall breathed heavily. Shadows detached themselves from the walls. They crept closer, not threateningly, but like memories that know they must leave at once. The Reaper didn't look up. He knew: every shadow here was a last one. Each wanted to be read, weighed, understood. A final entry shone, without ink, without a sign: "The One Who Counts." His gaze—invisible, but unmistakable—rested on the words. Not astonished. Not shaken. But silent. He had known that he, too, would be counted. Someday. For the counter, too, is a shadow. Only a slower one. He closed the book. The smoke escaped like an exhaled oath. The candles flickered—for the first time. Not from wind. But from knowledge. The Grimm Reaper stood up. He wasn't carrying the book. It was now part of his form. In the folds of his cloak, every line, every shadow, every almost forgotten trace vibrated.