Just because the stars forgot to turn up for work does not mean that the lake can’t shine anyway.

Not starlight, or moonlight, or even the sort of light that happens when someone inadvertently turns their phone torch on without realising it. This was lanternlight — a soft orange glow that drifted on the water’s skin like a dream of floating fire across the water’s surface.

The Temple of Ten Thousand Regrets (it had once been called The Temple of Two Regrets, but monks are very good at remembering personal baggage) stood on a rock island in the middle of the lake. It had no doors, a hundred stairs, and a strict no-shoes policy. It was, in short, a place of peace, reflection, and rampant plantar fasciitis.

Tonight, the prevailing silence was broken by the gentle gurglings of water, the ship-like creak of wood, and, curiously, the sound of someone being dead.

A small wooden boat, not much larger than a floating hat, nudged the shore.

It carried a single figure in a black robe, whose skeletal hands rested lightly on the tiller. His name was **Death**, and he was on one of his occasional holiday breaks.

“AH,” he said, in the kind of voice you could sand furniture with. “PEACEFUL.”

The boat drifted forward, and lanterns parted politely to let him through.

Death had seen many things in his time. Mostly things that people had left too long before attempting. Mostly regrets. He had seen kings sobbing for more time, lovers making unkeepable promises, and one confused chicken who had somehow survived three axe blows to the neck and wanted, suddenly and hopelessly improbably, to become an opera singer.

But he had never taken the time to really see this lake. Not properly.

And tonight, he was curious. (By the way… curiosity is not usual for anthropomorphic personifications, but Death had always been a bit of a maverick, which is to say, he was not averse to trying new things. Only last Thursday he had tried cocoa. Which was _nice._)

A pagoda loomed ahead, looking rather splendid. Its reflection shimmered below, adding further sparkle to a dark area of the lake. At each tier, small lights flickered, invitingly.

“ARE THOSE… CANDLES?”

There was a soft rustle behind him. He turned.

A small boy stood on the tiny stern of the boat, barefoot, wide-eyed, and oddly, quite alive, in the way that only young dreamers who died too soon can manage.

“You came,” the boy said. His voice was clear, but had that odd echo dreams sometimes give, as though another version of the same sentence was being spoken three feet to the left.

“I AM NOT USUALLY INVITED,” said Death.

“You were expected.”

“OH?”

The boy pointed to the temple. “They said someone would come. They sent me to the far shore. A Silence, they said, who listens louder than anyone.”

Death adjusted his hood. He wasn’t used to compliments. Most people greeted him with either blank uncomprehending silence or incoherent screaming and an urgent interest in being somewhere else.

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

The boy shrugged in the way that implied centuries of philosophical debate could be brushed off. The biscuit crumbs of conversation.

“I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

The boy looked down at the water. It showed nothing now… Just blackness, deep and cold.

“My name is Koto. I drowned here. A long time ago. But I didn’t cross over. The monks kept my name on the wind. They lit a candle for me every year. They said the ferryman missed me, so I should wait. I think… I think you’re the ferryman.”

“TECHNICALLY, THAT IS ANOTHER DEPARTMENT,” said Death. “BUT HE’S AWAY THIS WEEK.”

“Did he request time off?”

“NO. HE OCCASIONALLY HAS BOUTS OF SLOTH. THEY GO AWAY AFTER A FEW DAYS.”

Koto considered this for a moment. He did not find it unreasonable.

Death climbed out of the boat. The water, naturally, did not touch his robes. He stepped onto the stone path and walked slowly up toward the temple, the boy trailing behind him.

Inside the pagoda, there were a thousand candles. Maybe more. Each flame swaying slightly as they entered, as if bowing to someone they’d met in another lifetime. On a small altar, one candle stood apart and flickered unsteadily, as if it knew it was the centre of attention and didn’t want to be.

“That one’s mine,” said Koto. “It’s always been mine.”

Death looked at the flame. “IT WAITS FOR YOU.”

“But I’m not sure I want to go.”

“WHY NOT?”

“I like it here. The monks tell stories. They say I might be reborn. Or maybe I’d return as a crane. I always wanted to fly.”

Death reached out. His bony finger touched the base of the candle.

It steadied.

“I AM NOT HERE TO TAKE YOU,” he said gently. “I AM HERE TO OFFER YOU THE CHOICE.”

“Why?”

Death paused.

“BECAUSE THEY WILL REMEMBER YOU. SO TO THEM, YOU ARE NOT GONE.”

And that, in the end, was all the difference. Memory has power. Names hold weight. And the monks, in their lonely temple with ten thousand regrets and actually quite excellent tea, had kept a boy from falling entirely into the dark.

Koto looked up at him.

“Will it hurt?”

“ONLY FOR A MOMENT.”

“And then?”

“THEN, YOU MAY FLY.”

The boy nodded. His form began to shimmer, becoming less boy and more possibility. The flame of the candle flared, a brief blaze, and then vanished.

Outside, one lantern bobbed away from the others, drifting toward the horizon.

Death turned and walked back down to the boat. The lanterns respectfully parted once again. He climbed aboard, and it began to move, pulled by no oar, carried by no wind.

Behind him, the pagoda, now lit by ten thousand and one candles, shone more brightly than before.

Death did not wave. He had never really learned how.

But he did whisper.

“GOODBYE, KOTO.”

The lake swallowed the sound with a ripple.

And somewhere, far, far away, on a bright clear morning, somewhere between one breath and the next, a crane took flight.