[ WP ] You 're in bed with a terrible cold when you look up to see Death sitting in chair on the other side of the room . He is reading a thick book when he looks up and says , `` Do n't worry . Take your time . I just started this ... . ''

When you've lived a life like mine, little can truly surprise you anymore. In my thirty-five years I'd done just about all there was to do on this earth. I'd seen wonders, met people, traveled the globe, fallen in love, had my heart broken, felt more than most people feel in seventy years' worth of time. I'd been on top of the world and to the depths of hell and back. So when Death first appeared to me I did n't act surprised. 
 
 It was an eerie feeling at first, when I noticed him sitting there in that rocking chair at the foot of my sickbed, but it settled quickly. To some, he undoubtedly appeared different -- a hooded black figure to those who feared him, perhaps. But it had been ages since I had felt anything at all, let alone fear. No, the figure in front of me was rather unassuming: a fifty-something year old man, a full head of light brown hair, laugh lines on his face, a corduroy jacket over his sweater. He could have been a bona fide college professor, sitting there turning the pages of that thick red book in his lap. But it did n't take me long to figure out what he was. I had been expecting him for some time now, really. 
 
 `` Good evening, Mister Warren. Seen better days, eh?'' 
 
 His voice and his expression were warm. I could tell he knew me. Perhaps he noticed the liquor bottle and innumerous medications on the nightstand, perhaps it was the hacking cough, or perhaps he needed only stare into my eyes to see that I would n't be putting up a fight. Whatever the case, I had n't risen in weeks, and I was n't going anywhere now. 
 
 And so, we talked. We talked about my life, about my parents and my childhood and my first time holding a violin. About the prodigy who wrote symphonies by age thirteen and who was a worldwide sensation by sixteen, to whom music came as quickly and as naturally as drawing breath. About private schools and concert halls and television specials. About the boy who had the world in his hands that was so lost from me now. 
 
 And we talked about Ellen. Oh God, how we talked about Ellen. About the stiffness in my legs and stutter in my voice the first time I saw her, about our first kiss, about the tears I shed when she walked down the aisle towards me in that white dress, about how she became my world and inspired me. About the pain that comes with losing a child and a wife who could never look at you with the same love again. About the pain of watching someone you loved walk out the door for the last time. About the day I got that call about that accident, and how music had left me and never returned ever since. 
 
 All throughout he maintained that warm smile, but he kept his eyes on the pages in front of him, occasionally laughing and flipping through. 
 
 `` What was it like, getting to create the soundtrack on a Spielberg movie?'' 
 
 `` What did you do with all that money, at such an age?'' 
 
 `` Of all things, you gave her a little bracelet on your first date? How did that go over?'' 
 
 `` Did you really once tell the director of the Chicago Orchestra that Beethoven had a better ear for pitch than he did, at the end of his days?'' 
 
 It continued for what felt like hours. Sometimes it was enjoyable, sometimes painful. Several times I even faked a smile. Other times I asked him rather bluntly if we could just get on with business. But then finally, as he turned another page, something managed to peak my curiosity. 
 
 `` What is that, anyway?'' I asked him, pointing at the red, leather-bound book. 
 
 He looked up at me, laughing as he gave me a slightly incredulous look. 
 
 `` Why, it's *your* book, of course!'' 
 
 `` But I've never written...'' 
 
 `` Sure you have!'' he said reassuringly. `` You've been writing it your whole life. Here, would you like to see?'' He walked over and held it out to me. 
 
 I flipped it over as I took it in my hands. It was old, and heavier than it had any right to be. *J.S. Warren* was all it read on the cover. My hair stood on end as I flipped the first page, and then another, and another. It was... me. My entire life, in print, like an awkwardly-narrated autobiography. There were passages in here from parts of my life that I had discussed with the man who was Death only minutes ago, but there were also details that I had never told anyone -- some thoughts I had never even spoken aloud. It was all there. 
 
 Eventually I came to the details of the first time I met Ellen; that was when I had had enough. I let the book fall to the bed and pushed it away. 
 
 `` That's enough,'' I said, `` If you're through torturing me I'd like to get on with this.'' 
 
 `` Are you?'' He asked curiously. I could feel his eyes on me, even though I averted his gaze. `` I never was a fan of these... situations. Your book need not end in such a way.'' 
 
 That upset me. I met his eyes and stared back at him, defiant. I did n't say anything -- I did n't have to. I wanted it to all end. I wanted to vanish. I wanted to be rid of the pain. And I did not want his pity. He nodded. 
 
 `` Very well then.'' He leaned forward, slowly reaching a finger out to touch my forehead. I closed my eyes, waiting for it to take me. 
 
 But then he stopped. `` Oh,'' he said, fumbling for something in his pocket. `` I'm sorry, I know you're in a hurry, but I just had one thing to show you first.'' 
 
 I gave him an exasperated look as he placed it in my hand. I did n't want to look at it, but I could feel it was small and metallic. A shiver went through my body. This was something I had held before. I looked down, and for the first time since I could remember, tears came to my eyes. 
 
 It was brass. Small, with two little musical notes etched into the design in the center. It was cracked, worn, and barely held together, but I knew exactly what it was. It was a bracelet. A bracelet that a promising young musician had once given his future wife on their very first date. 
 
 `` Where did you *get* this?'' I was barely able to ask as my throat choked up. 
 
 `` They never found it in the wreckage, but she had with her the night of the accident,'' he said sadly. 
 
 Suddenly I felt bombarded. Anger, sadness, bewilderment -- things I did n't think I would ever have felt again. My face flushed. It was n't possible, it could n't have been. She had left me. She'd never wanted to see me again. How could she or anyone else have ever loved *me? * I could n't even get a thought out as I looked up at him. 
 
 `` But, I thought... she did n't... she could n't have kept...'' 
 
 He silenced me, placing a hand on my head and looking straight into my eyes. 
 
 `` She never went anywhere without that bracelet. Never. After all those years. Now I do n't know what you've been lead to believe, but it seems obvious to me that it -- and whomever gave it to her -- must have meant quite a lot.'' 
 
 And then the levee broke. I burst into tears. *After all those years*. I squeezed the tarnished remnants of that bracelet so hard that my hand bled. Somewhere inside me, I felt something else. Like a shackle loosening itself. Little by little, the pain slowly left me. I could picture Ellen smiling in front of me again. A warmth seemed to spread through me as I sat up. But there was something else, something inside my head that I thought I would never hear again. *Music*. 
 
 I looked up at the man who was Death again. His gaze was expectant. 
 
 `` And now?'' He said gently. 
 
 Slowly, I stood up. It was like my body was remembering how to move again. I smiled at him as I righted myself, and shook my head. I must have looked an awful wreck, but truthfully I do n't think I had ever felt so alive. I could move. I could feel. I wanted to live again. I do n't know where it was coming from, but I felt *ready* for the world again. And most of all I wanted my violin again. 
 
 I wanted to thank the man in front of me, I wanted to ask how I could ever repay this debt I owed him, but something about him told me I had said enough. He simply nodded, picked up the book, and turned for the door. 
 
 `` This is quite a story, Mister Warren,'' he said, tucking the book away under his robe, `` And I look forward to the day I might read the rest of it.''
