“Are you a blacksmith?”

The voice came from behind so suddenly that Vasily flinched. He hadn’t heard the workshop door open, nor anyone enter.

“Did you try knocking?” he asked sharply, irritated with himself and the unexpected guest.

“Knocking? Hmm… never thought to try,” the voice replied.

Vasily grabbed a rag from the workbench and, wiping his calloused hands, turned slowly. He was already preparing a sharp retort for the intruder, but the words stuck in his throat. Standing before him was no ordinary client.

“Could you straighten my scythe?” the visitor asked—a woman’s voice, though slightly hoarse.

“Is that all?” Vasily sighed, tossing the rag into a corner.

“Not yet,” she replied. “But it’s much worse than before.”

“Fair enough,” Vasily muttered. “What do I need to do?”

“Straighten the scythe,” she repeated patiently.

“And after that?”

“Sharpen it, if possible.”

Vasily examined the scythe. Indeed, the blade was battered, the edge warped like a wave.

“I see,” he nodded. “But… what should I do? Pray? Get my affairs in order? You see… it’s my first time.”

“Oh, that.” Death’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “No, I’m not here for you. I just need the scythe repaired. Can you do it?”

“So, I’m not… dead?” Vasily asked, cautiously patting himself.

“You should know better than I. How do you feel?”

“I… seem fine.”

“No nausea? Dizziness? Pain?”

“N-no,” he stammered, tuning in to his body.

“Then you’ve nothing to worry about.” She handed him the scythe.

Vasily took it with trembling hands and began examining it from every angle. It looked like a half-hour job, but knowing who would be waiting for him stretched that time in his mind to at least two hours. With unsteady legs, he approached the anvil and picked up his hammer.

“Please… sit down. Don’t just stand there,” Vasily said, trying to muster all the hospitality he could manage.

Death nodded and took a seat on the bench, leaning her back against the wall.

---

The work was nearly done. After straightening the blade as best he could, Vasily picked up the grindstone and glanced at his guest.

“Pardon me for being blunt,” he said, “but it’s hard to believe I’m holding an object responsible for so many lives. No weapon in the world can compare to this. It’s… astonishing.”

Death, who had been casually observing the workshop, stiffened.

“What did you just say?” she asked quietly.

“I said it’s hard to believe—”

“A weapon? Did you call it a weapon?”

“Maybe I misspoke, I just meant—”

Vasily couldn’t finish. In a flash, Death was in front of him, her hood quivering as if alive.

“How many people do you think I’ve killed?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“I… I don’t know,” Vasily stammered, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“Answer me!” Death seized his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. “How many?”

“I-I-I don’t know…”

“How many?” she shouted, her voice echoing through the workshop.

“How could I know?” Vasily squeaked, desperate to look away.

Death released him and stood silent for a moment. Then, with a heavy sigh, she returned to the bench, her shoulders slumped.

“So you don’t know,” she said softly. Without waiting for a response, she continued, “What if I told you I’ve never killed anyone? Not a single soul. What would you say to that?”

“But… how?”

“I’ve never killed anyone. Why would I need to? You’re more than capable of killing each other. You kill for money, for anger, for hatred. You even kill for fun. When that’s not enough, you start wars and slaughter by the hundreds, by the thousands. You’re addicted to bloodshed. And the worst part? You can’t even admit it to yourselves. It’s easier to blame me.”

Death paused, her voice softening. “Do you know what I used to be? I was beautiful. I welcomed souls with flowers and guided them to where they belonged. I smiled, easing their pain and helping them forget. But look at me now.”

She ripped off her hood.

Before Vasily stood an old woman, her face–a maze of deep wrinkles. Her gray hair hung in tangled strands, her cracked lips pulled down unnaturally, revealing crooked, decayed teeth. But it was her eyes that froze him in place—pale, empty, and utterly lifeless.

“Look at what I’ve become. Do you know why?” she demanded, stepping closer.

“N-no,” Vasily stammered, shrinking under her gaze.

“Because of you. All of you. I’ve watched mothers kill their children. I’ve seen brothers kill brothers. I’ve seen one man slaughter hundreds in a single day. I screamed. I wept. I howled in anguish at the horror of it all.”

Her eyes glistened as if with tears.

“I traded my beautiful dress for these black rags so the blood wouldn’t show. I wear this hood so no one sees my tears. I don’t bring flowers anymore. You turned me into a monster. And then you blamed me for it all. Of course, it’s easier that way…” She fixed her unblinking gaze on Vasily. “I don’t kill. I guide. Now, give me my scythe, fool.”

Snatching the scythe from his hands, Death turned and headed for the door.

“May I ask one question?” Vasily called after her.

“You want to know why I need a scythe?” she asked, pausing at the threshold.

“Yes.”

“The road to heaven… it’s long been overgrown with grass.”