My oh my, how my collection has grown. Death thought somberly to himself. He gazed upon the endless columns of bookshelves stacked on top of each other. Each spine was printed with a name in golden ink. Some of the books were long, and some were short, but no matter the length, Death had taken the time to meticulously hand write each page with care. When he was done, he would place the new book on the shelf where it would forever remain static. The books were organized by "Date of Departure", or extermination as others call it. Some years had more biographies than others, those years Death was particularly busy.
Wistfully, he brushed his life less fingertips across the rough spines of the books. Abby, Charles, Samantha, none of the names were unfamiliar to him. Over time, they all had just sort of mushed together, nothing seemed original anymore. He closed his eyes as he continued to stroke the uniform cotton covers of the books. Sometimes there was a large spine and Death would try to guess how long the person lived. 736 pages, 912 pages, 664 pages, he thought to himself. It was like he could hear each of their voices as his fingers grazed over them.
Then, he skimmed over a cover. He opened his eyes and again brushed his hands over the offbeat gap. He bent down and pulled out a book so thin, he could not read the name. The story felt like a feather in his hands. He opened the cover to find one lonely page that read: Only the young die good. He collapsed on the floor, pressing the feeble book against his chest, and cried.