Death had been called many names by civilisation over the course of time. He had been Anubis to the Ancient Egyptians, and Mictlāntēuctli to the Aztecs. The Romans had called him Pluto. To the Ancient Greeks, he had been known as Thanatos (the personification of death, not to be confused with Hades, King Of The Underworld). Yet, no matter what name Michael went by, civilisation still feared him.

Civilisation confused Michael. Having never been apart of it, he did not understand how it worked. He didn't understand why lovers quarrelled when they had one another. He didn't understand why parents left their children when they had created such a precious life. He didn't understand why people hated others because of their beliefs or the way they identified themselves. He didn't understand why people would take lives so freely during war.

Oh, how Death hated war. How he hated having to guide the souls of young men and women away from the land of the living, their lives cut short by such unreasonable anger and violence.

He could remember the First and Second World Wars, and how many young men he'd had to guide in such a short period of time. For many years afterwards, Michael would hear their pain-filled cries echoing through his skull. The men had not deserved that fate. At the time, the universe had been incredibly out of balance.

As he stood in the middle of the bustling high street, he sighed, glancing around him. It confused him — how naive these people are. How could they be so blissfully unaware of everything going on around them? Of all the wars and the lives being cut short all too soon?

Of course, no one could see him. His presence wasn't noted. In fact, every few minutes, someone would walk through him and he would blink in surprise — it was a strange feeling he had never gotten used to.

Michael has never understood why the universe had decided to make it this way. He looked human. His hair was a dirty blonde mess that would fall into his eyes and obstruct his view. He didn't wear a cloak; he wore skinny jeans and a hoodie. His face wasn't old and gaunt; it was youthful and healthy. And his eyes weren't dark pools of terror (he had seen it in a human book a hundred years back); they were a dark green.

Michael looked perfectly human.

But the universe was cruel and taunted him with a life that could not be. How Michael longed to communicate with the people on this busy high street.

Michael could feel the rain and the wind. He could feel emotions. But Michael could not do the one thing he longed to do.

Michael only wanted a connection. He only wanted someone to talk to. He wanted to hear about their day. Michael wanted to make someone laugh and see someone smile because of him. Michael wanted someone to hold him close and lace their fingers together.

But Michael couldn't have that.

Death was lonely.