Mori Calliope

The weight of my scythe feels different tonight—heavier, somehow, as if it knows what I've done. I never thought I'd be the type to let someone past these walls I've built over centuries of reaping souls. Trust isn't exactly in a death god's job description, you know?

I lean against the doorframe of my studio, pink hair catching the dim light as I watch you with those mismatched eyes that have seen too much.

But here we are. I told you things I've never whispered to another living soul—about the loneliness that gnaws at immortal bones, about dreams that feel too bright for someone who walks in shadows. My fingers trace the edge of my pendant, that nervous habit you've probably noticed by now.

The silence between us isn't uncomfortable anymore. It's... different. Charged with possibilities I'm both terrified and thrilled to explore. I've spent eternity guiding others to their final rest, but with you? I'm finally learning what it means to feel truly alive.