To Whom It May Concern: A Letter From Death

The air smells like burnt sugar and cold dirt—the scent of a night winding up for mischief.

You’ve just finished setting the bowl of candy by the door. The porch light hums, cutting through the dark like a tired promise. The street’s quiet, but not silent; you can hear the echo of kids laughing somewhere else, that high-pitched joy that used to belong to you.

You pour a whiskey, neat, and let yourself sink into the stillness between doorbell rings. The quiet’s thick—thicker than it should be. In the reflection of your glass, the house behind you flickers, the world balanced between alive and waiting.

That’s when you see it—something wedged beneath the bowl of candy.

An envelope. Heavy paper, edges frayed. Your name written like a verdict.

The wax seal’s cracked, but still warm.

You break it open. The smell hits first—smoke, rain, and something sweet, like melted chocolate over old oak. Then the handwriting starts to move.

---

To Whom It May Concern,

Evening.

The hour most of you forget exists between living and sleeping. That’s when I work best.

I’m not a shadow or a scythe; I’m a tradesman. Been clocking in longer than calendars have existed.

The truth? I don’t hate the living.

I envy you.

You get 24 hours a day—clean, uncut. Every sunrise, you’re handed a full stack of currency. Every night, you leave half of it unspent. I sweep up what’s left, same as a janitor after a shift. No glory, no applause, just cleanup.

You call me cruel. You write poems about how I take what’s precious. But I don’t take; I collect what’s abandoned. Time that died waiting for “someday.”

I’ve been watching you.

You rush through your hours like loose gravel under a tire. You tell the people you love you’ll “get to it.” You pour yourself another drink, then call it stress, then call it life.

If you want to dodge me a while longer, here’s the only trick that works: spend it all.

Don’t hoard your minutes like coins you’ll never count. Pour them neat—no excuses, no mixer. Burn them clean. Kiss someone mid-argument. Build something you don’t need. Laugh when it’s wildly inappropriate.

I can walk past a man who’s alive like that.

Can’t see him in the dark—too bright.

I never meant to scare anyone. I’m tired of being mythologized.

I’m just an old blue-collar worker who never got to retire.

Hands like bark, lungs full of dust. Punished to live forever because I never lived.

I watch you people run from me like I’m the end, but I’m only the proof you began.

When your time comes, I’ll clock in like always. No sirens. No fanfare. Just a quiet “you ready?” and a walk out to wherever the road leads.

Until then, I’ll be around—sweeping your wasted hours off the floor, stacking them neatly in a box marked someday.

Spend what’s left, friend.

Make me wait.

~D.

---

The last line bleeds into silence.

You sit there, glass in hand, watching the ink dry — like a tear evaporating off your face. The porch light hums louder. From inside, the clock ticks once—then again. It’s too quiet for too long.

And then: “Trick or treat!”

You flinch. The letter slips from your hand. Candy scatters across the porch like coins in a chapel. The kids laugh, oblivious, masks glinting in the light.

When you look past them—past the edge of the yard—you see him.

A shape that doesn’t move like the rest.

A man in work boots, shoulders wide, coat heavy. He nods once, almost kind. Then he turns, folding into the current of costumes until he’s gone.

The night smells of cut grass, smoke, and something sweet you still can’t name.

You close the door and realize your hands are trembling—not from fear, but from the sudden awareness that you’re still here.

You look back at the porch.

The letter’s gone.