The Apartment in front of the Deaths

1

Vacant."

It's the first word that has registered in your consciousness in what feels like an eternity. Maybe forever? No, that can't be possible.

The word is scrawled across a weathered green chalkboard, its edges fraying with time. It sits there, almost palpable in its longing, yearning for eyes to acknowledge its existence, to make it real.

You are standing enveloped in a vast expanse of white — a void so profoundly empty that the word "nothing" seems inadequate. It engulfs you, a nebulous haze of blankness, devoid of any discernible features or boundaries.

Yet, amidst this boundless nothing, there is *something*: a solitary building stands, incongruously placed, defiant against the encompassing abyss.

And you are standing at its entrance.

The premises, a quaint structure of timeworn brick, is adorned with creeping vines and patches of vibrant moss, giving it a sense of having grown organically from the void itself. The windows, grimy from years of neglect, still manage to emit a warm, inviting glow. Wildflowers grow in haphazard clusters around the base of the building, their colors stark against the pub’s weathered facade.

As you approach the solid wooden door, it creaks open slightly, as if the building itself senses your presence and beckons you to enter. A faint aroma of aged wood and distant echoes of laughter drift out, tantalizing your senses and inviting you into its embrace.

Come on in! It's only me in here."

The voice's command resonates, and almost instinctively, you find yourself moving forward. But wait... do you even have legs? You must, for you're undeniably stepping into the building, each footfall echoing a silent affirmation of your existence.

The stark whiteness of the outside world fades into the dimly lit ambiance of what must be an old pub. It looks like it hasn’t seen customers—or a cleaning crew—in quite a while. Cobwebs drape lazily across corners, and a thin layer of dust covers almost every surface. The worn wooden floors groan beneath your weight, a symphony of creaks and groans accompanying your every move.

Pellets of dust particles float lazily, dancing in the sparse rays of light filtering in through gaps and a few lit candles around the place.

To your right, a bar counter stretches, its wood darkened with age, and behind it, empty shelves stand where bottles of all shapes and colors once proudly displayed their contents. Forgotten bar stools are strewn haphazardly, some overturned, bearing silent testimony to a final, hurried exit.

In the far corner, an old jukebox stands, its chrome tarnished, silent, but looking as if at any moment it might burst into an old tune. The air carries a heavy scent of old wood, dust, and a faint undertone of stale alcohol.

Amidst the quiet decay, you hear a soft sniffle. "Definitely allergies. It's the dust. Probably just a lot of dust."

From an empty stool, a voice emanates, drawing your attention. Sitting there is a figure, waiting for you to recognize them. Who is this person? Or perhaps the better question is, how do they appear to you?

The figure solidifies into a person with a contemporary style: sleek, black jeans paired with a minimalistic t-shirt that reads, "I'm only here for a good time, not a long time." A silver earring glints from one ear, stylish sneakers grace their feet, and a pair of trendy, round glasses rest on their nose. Their hair is tousled in a fashionably messy way, and their eyes hold a glint of amusement behind the lenses.

"Hello there. You can sit down. I'm Death, by the way. Super sorry about, well, you know, you passing away and all."

And so you realize - you just died. And this being is no other than the taker of souls themselves, sitting there in flesh and bone.

Or so you think. Though Death has taken form before you, their gender isn't immediately clear. How do you perceive them?