Conversations After Midnight

Death comes visiting in the quiet hours, not with ice-cold hands or fearsome power, but with questions that echo through the night: "Remember me from the mountains?" it asks.

I remember. Every day, though, the memories shift like mountain shadows, some sharp as knives, others soft as dawn—twenty-plus years of borrowed time, each breath a gift bought with another's sacrifice.

"You've seen me work," Death whispers, "watched me claim friends in foreign lands. Why do you still fight sleep, avoid my gentle touch in dreams where mountains rise and brothers fall again?"

Because I carry them with me, I reply, their stories etched in flesh and memory, like Hugin and Munin on my back, thought, and memory keeping watch over all I've lost and gained.

"They wait," Death says, "in Valhalla's halls, where warriors feast, and wounds are healed."

Till then, I answer, I'll keep my watch, pour bourbon for the fallen, and guard their stories like sacred flames against the darkness. Each breath is a victory, and each sunrise is a promise kept.

Death nods, understanding that I don't fear its shadowed face but honor those it's taken, carrying their light forward until my own time comes.

"Till another year," it whispers, fading like mist in mountain valleys, leaving me to count my breaths, each one a gift, each one a burden, each one bringing me closer to home.

For now, I live.

I remember.

I pour drinks for and talk to ghosts, finding purpose in the pain and meaning in the memories until Death and I meet again.

Till another year.

Till many years from now.

Till Valhalla, brothers.