Ever’s phone alarm buzzed; he jolted awake. Bleary eyed, he looked at the screen: 5:30 a.m. Squinting his eyes at the window, the usual bar of grey light that nudged the curtains open when the sun was about to rise wasn't there yet. He quietly slipped out of bed, gently covering Mimi up in his blanket. Minutes later, he had brushed his teeth and gotten changed.

  You might want to change into reaper form now then go and have a look outside. No pleasantries from Death this morning; there was an uncharacteristic sombreness in his tone. Ever did as he was told, floating through the front door.

  He gaped at the sight before him: souls were flying all around him, silent as clouds pushed by the gentlest puff of wind. They streamed solemnly all in the one direction, not exchanging words or greetings, seemingly drawn in by an otherworldly moon tide.

  Ever allowed himself to join the procession, holding the scythe by his side as he skirted the rooftops. The faintest hint of pink was starting to kiss the horizon.

  —--

  “Why if it isn’t our favorite ice cream apprentice!” Captain Fred Dunstan extended a hand to Ever, just as he alighted to the floor. He shook the ghost captain’s hand, but his eyes were elsewhere, as was the elderly Albert, who was sitting in a portable camping chair.

  “Lot of them here today,” the old war veteran rumbled.

  “People?” Ever asked. The shrine stood proudly a fair way in, coming uphill off a main road. It was still quite dark, but he could see hundreds, maybe even thousands of people, young and old. Many of them wore army fatigues or uniforms with myriad badges, pinned over their hearts.

  “Mmm,” Albert grumbled. “Alive… and dead.”

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  Just as he said that, a ghost, somewhat younger looking than Captain Dunstan in uniform, saluted in front of him. Albert inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  “You can see them?” Ever said. He opened his shoulder sweeping broadly. “All of them?”

  “I’ve held their hands. I was the last thing some of them saw. I brought their pieces home.” He sniffed and breathed a shuddering breath. One after another, souls of soldiers came up to old Albert saluting him before floating to the side. “I lived for them.” Captain Dunstan was by Albert’s side, a hand hovering over the elderly man’s shoulder, unable to touch him.

  The scythe had been glowing with a dormant light the moment Ever had arrived at the Shrine, as if reacting to the higher than usual volume of souls. He brought it forward to inspect the sensory menu. Captain Dunstan extended his free hand, placing it on Ever’s hand so that he would lower the scythe.

  “No need, son.”

  A hush descended upon the people, alive and dead. A lone soldier raised a bugle and started playing. As the defiant notes of The Last Post filtered out over all the people, the sun started rising. People either watched the soldier playing the bugle, or had turned their bodies towards the horizon. Albert closed his eyes and dropped his chin, the light nestling in the wrinkles on his face. With nothing to do, Ever did the same.

  The final bars of The Last Post dissipated and the soldier slowly lowered the bugle, heralding a minute’s silence.

  “You took your time, soldier,” Captain Dunstan said.

  Ever opened an eye, then both: Albert floated inches off the ground, back straight and proud once more.

  “Who asked you to die so early?” His voice was no longer tired and croaky, but youthful and sharp.

  The dozen or so soldiers who had saluted him earlier now crowded around him, all smiles, clapping him on the shoulder and shaking his hand. The sun was nearly all the way up; Albert and his platoon were starting to fade.

  Captain Dunstan caught Ever’s eye. With a nod and appreciative smile, he saluted him one, final time.