Adult Short Story - Second Place - Betty Tomlinson Anderson Award for Literary Excellence

"I know you're there. I can feel you."

Her voice came before her gaze, slicing through the stillness of the Imperial Garden like a
sparrow startling the dawn. The sound carried the cadence of wild fields and muddy roads—faint
now, worn thin by palace polish, but never fully erased. Just misplaced enough to mark her as not
quite from this place.

Death stilled, half-hidden behind a towering Taihu stone. Its weathered hollows and
jagged silhouette swallowed him whole in shadow.

Her breath curled in the cold February air, fading into mist before he could decide what to
do. He considered slipping back behind the veil, and let her dismiss his presence as wind, or a
fever dream. Humans were so good at explaining away the uncanny.

But curiosity was something he had yet to unlearn. It lingered, still. Tender. Foolish. And
far too human.

He stepped forward. The stone's shadow peeled away while his own took shape.

"How?" His voice startled even himself—rasped with disuse, brittle and low, scraping the
silence like something crawled out of the depth of darkness. And in fairness, it had been.

She whirled around, pearl beads dangled from her hairpiece, clinking softly against a
silver filigree pin. Her eyes widened for a hiccup in time—long enough to betray
surprise—before the moment slipped behind a smile. A curious tilt of her lips, like she was
pleased with herself.

"I didn't," she admitted without a hint of shame. Her jade earrings glimmered faintly,
catching light like dew in the first break of dawn. "I just thought I'd try." Her smile grew
wider—rouge lips against pearl

Her voice had the lift of someone used to being clever and just barely getting away with
it. It chirped in a tone too bright for the Forbidden Palace—a place built on whispers and
compliance.

He studied her.

She stood on the pebbled path, spine straight. Even on her flower-pot shoes she barely
reached his shoulder. Maroon silk and fur-trimmed vest bloomed against the snow—crimson in a
sea of white. The robe hung boxy, yet the fabric still swayed with her, as if motion had been
stitched into the seams. Embroidered butterflies fluttered along her sleeves, weaving between
narcissus and chrysanthemums, winter plums and jasmine—each thread a prayer for fortune,
fertility, and longevity.

Death recognized the symbols, even if the memories slipped through him like smoke.
Well-meaning wishes, they were. All of them. But they didn't belong here. And neither did she.

A breeze cut through the garden, brushing the white fur trim against her chin. Her breath
shimmered, fogging the cold.

He caught himself staring, and shifted his gaze to the bare weeping branches that
trembled in the wind.

"So you didn't know." He murmured, more to himself than her, and a slow dread gnawed
at him.

She stepped back, staring up at him. The wooden soles clicked against stone, as if she
sensed a shift in the air.

Death held back a sigh. Of course, she didn't know. It was all in the manual—no mortals
could see him unless they were crossing. Unless he let them.

And he had.

Because she'd spoken as if she did, and some naive part of him wanted to believe she
could. The part of him that still remembered wanting to be seen.

He covered his face with one hand, exhaling shame. Rookie mistake.

"No." Her voice tilted upward like a question, but settled as a statement. If she sensed the
silent groan dying inside him, she didn't show it. Her smirk only grew more smug.

"But I was right, wasn't I?"

He didn't answer. Just watched through his fingers as the hem of her robe trembled. Her
flower-pot shoes marking the snow in nervous shifts. She wasn't afraid. Or rather, she was, but
refused to show. Somehow, that was worse. Because it intrigued him—yet another feeling he
wasn't meant to have.

"Who are you, anyway?" She asked, rocking back on her heels, curiosity glimmered
behind feigned disinterest.

He felt her gaze skim over him, tracing his unshorn hair that was unlike the Manchu men
and their court-approved queues. Lingering on his black robe tied by an obsidian sash with
knotted leather ties.

"You're not from here," she concluded.

He almost laughed. "More like, not from this plane," he corrected.

"A ghost, then."

He adjusted the worn leather wrist guard over his sleeve, swallowing the urge to explain
too much. But it was already too late. He wasn't bound to an era. Not since he had taken to the
calling. He had been, once—when he was mortal, where he was bound by the custom of the
living. Now he wore what suited his station: witness to a final breath, the usher of souls. A
shadow in mourning.

He didn't remember many choices in life. But in death, he was glad to choose. Even if his
appearance mattered little.

"I'm not a ghost," he said at last. "That would make things easier."

He could have been one—a forgotten remnant, drifting from door frame to door frame,
perhaps haunting the ones who wronged him. Though, he might be decades or centuries too late.

He couldn't remember. So instead, he chose to serve. To be of use. To remain.

"Then what?" she pressed, hands on hips, impatience coiling through her poise.

He bit back a smile. The maroon robe, an off colour of red; along with the simplicity of
the buyao—the dangling hairpin that swayed with each step; and the boldness—he'd gathered
plenty. But in the end, it was her posture that gave her away. Too relaxed and unschooled when
no one's watching.

No higher than a Fei. He guessed. A third-ranking consort—one of the emperor's
thousand court beauties. Recognized. Respected by some. But not protected. A title granted more
for beauty than bloodline.

And she wore her rank like a borrowed robe. One that had yet to settle into her skin.

"I am Death." He said, with a slight tilt of his chin.

She narrowed her eyes, like she couldn't decide whether to laugh or scream. "Like
Wuchang?" Her eyes swept over him again. "The black Impermanence?"

He winced, and resisted the urge to scratch his head.

The legend of Hei Bai Wuchang had lived for generations, and they weren't wrong. For
as long as the underworld existed, the Black and White Impermanence escorted the dead toward
judgment. Until…the inevitable budget cuts.

Even the deities became too expensive to worship.

"Not exactly," he said slowly. "There was a…restructuring." He paused before
adding—"It's just me now. Death."

He tried not to sound pathetic. He failed.

To his surprise, she didn't recoil, nor scream. She just blinked and—a gasp. "Wait," her
voice grew an octave, "was that you lurking in my chamber last week when I had that horrible
fever?"

He blinked.

"You thought I was going to die, didn't you." Hands planted on her hips again, spine
drawn like a blade, sharp with accusation.

She stepped forward, like he owed her an apology. And he instinctively retreated.
Guilt—another inconvenient echo of life.

But most importantly—Death Manual states, Rule #2: Never touch the living. And he
wasn't about to make another mistake.

"I didn't mean to…linger," he said, rubbing his neck. Which wasn't entirely a lie.

"I knew it! I saw something in the corner of my eyes! I thought I was hallucinating—but
it was you!"

Another step, and the space between them shrank to the width of a breath before he
shifted in retreat.

He sighed, jaw tight. Truth was, he never knew when it would happen. Death, for all his
titles, was more escort than executioner. He didn't decide who lived or died. Above his pay
grade. He just…had to be there when it happened.

Sometimes, it took hours. Sometimes days. He'd seen enough to recognize slow breaths,
the quiet and not so quiet slipping, the pallor of endings. And she—she had looked like that.

So he waited.

"You're not very good at this, are you." She said flatly, arms crossing, and lips twisting
into something like pity.

He blinked again. He hadn't realized he'd done such a poor job hiding. There was still so
much he hasn't mastered. "I am…new." He admitted.

That made her laugh. Bright, sudden, and unguarded. Startlingly alive in a place like
this—a kind of sound that didn't belong in a place of whispers.

He stared openly now, no longer pretending indifference.

"Next time," she said, smirking as she turned down the path, her buyao swaying. "Bring a
coat."

A glance over her shoulder—half challenge, half promise. "You'll be waiting a while."

He watched her slim figure vanish down the path, a flicker of crimson swallowed by
snow. And for a moment—just a moment—Death forgot he'd come only to see if she might fall
through the ice-crusted pond and drown.