It's a snowy day, January 6th. I'm coming back from work. It's already quite late, and I'm tired. Every step through the snow requires great effort. I manage to make my way across the ice-covered sidewalk without any accidents, navigate the Main Street, and finally reach the bus stop. The first part of my journey is over.

People passing by look as cold as the night that's quickly approaching, their faces frozen in grim expressions of dissatisfaction and frustration. I avert my gaze and glance at the timetable. I feel cold, hungry, and desperate to get back home, lie on the couch, and take a long nap.

At last, I hear the familiar rumble of the engine. The bus pulls up, growling impatiently as though urging the passengers to hurry. Grey smoke rises from the exhaust. As soon as the door opens, I slip inside, holding my breath to avoid inhaling the fumes. The bus lurches forward aggressively, causing me to stumble and grab onto the nearest support. Once I've regained my balance, I exhale and steady myself. That's when I feel it—a gentle touch on my forearm.

I turn to meet the gaze of a young woman. She's wearing a long black fur coat. Her hair is dark, her skin pale, and her cold blue eyes study me intently, following my every movement like a hawk. Despite her sharp demeanor, she offers a subtle smile.

"Would you like to sit, Sir?" she asks, motioning to a nearby seat.

Her touch feels icy, even through my layers of clothing. I quickly pull my arm away and shake my head.
"No, thank you," I reply after a brief hesitation.

For a moment, I wonder: Do I look so old to her that she felt the need to offer me a seat? Or maybe just tired—because that wouldn't be far from the truth. She nods and turns her gaze elsewhere, finally allowing me to do the same. Yet, something about her draws my eyes back to her face.

Her presence is strange, peculiar—but she is breathtakingly beautiful. Her defined cheekbones, full lips, flawless makeup, and coal-black hair give her an air of dignity. Suddenly, a warmth spreads through my body, igniting a deep, primal desire. My thoughts wander to whether she's naked beneath that coat. Ashamed, I quickly shake the thought away, scolding myself. But then, she smirks, glancing at me as if she's heard my very thoughts.

Disoriented and embarrassed, I clear my throat, look away, and move to the other set of doors. I stare out of the window, lost in thought, until the bus comes to a stop. The doors open, and I step off.

The bus drives away, its engine's growl fading into the distance. I take a deep breath of the cold night air, close my eyes, and when I open them again—there she is.

She's standing a few feet away, smiling at me.

A wave of panic grips me, irrational but undeniable. I want to run, but as I take a step back, I slip on the ice and fall. My head spins as I groan in pain and slowly get to my feet. But she's gone.

The woman in black, who was just there, has vanished.

Panting, confused, and terrified, I walk to where she was standing. There's no trace of her—no footprints in the snow, nothing. The street is silent and empty, as if she was never there.

Giving up my search, I turn and head toward my apartment, not daring to look back. Only when I'm inside do I realize the truth.

I've just met Death.

Woylera

This story was told to me by a priest, a trusted family friend. While in Italy, he encountered a beautiful woman dressed entirely in black while riding a gondola up a mountain. She was kind and offered him a seat, but he refused. Later, when he got off, he saw her walking through the snow ahead of him. He turned to glance at the city below, but when he looked back, she was gone.

He believed, in his heart, that he had met Death that day—and narrowly escaped her.

I've taken his story, altered it slightly, and present it to you as such.