Death, long enamored of his mortal charges, watched them ceaselessly. He loved them, in his own way; the way an immortal, ageless being outside of time and space can love the tender existence of a finite and flawed creature. He loved them like the fragile things they were. He was buoyed by their triumphs and weighted by their losses. Their quirks and strange habits brought to him a sense of wonder, though at times he could be heard, not unlike a broody mother hen, clucking to himself as his charges were up to something one might describe as ‘no good.’ 
But…all things considered, they were largely good. Their love could be unconditional, boundless, unending even in Death. It was often he would come to call and find their tired hearts slowing, each beat a little weaker than the last and every breath a fraction fainter. And yet, he could feel the pull of their devotion, beckoning them still to remain, just a while longer, with the ones they loved. And often Death allowed it, because he loved them. 

And the good ones were always the hardest. Not because it was scary or painful because, really, Death was neither of those things. Dying could be, of course, but Death…was like slipping away to another room. Like leaving a crowded party where the air was too thick, the voices too loud, and stepping out into the chilly night. It was that first brisk inhale under a sky tossed with stars and being free. Death was an Irish goodbye. Perhaps it was just the finality of an ending, the closing of such a brief but bright chapter and knowing that with this, we must put the story back up on the shelf. Endings are difficult, even under the best of circumstances, and these could hardly be said to be the best of anything. This good one was the last one. And so, it was with a heavy heart that Death sought to take his last. He found him in the expected place, where sometime before Death had visited his best friend, the Last One’s most beloved, and taken him away. Death had felt that familiar ache as he pulled the Beloved to his feet but it was sharpened by the tangible grief of his charge. The Beloved understood that with his leaving, the Last would truly be alone, the singular mortal soul left behind in a world that had very nearly finished dying. His final thoughts before he departed were of the days and years before, and the memories that should have faded with time like well loved toys were still vivid, kept vibrant through the unexplainable sorcery held by all things cherished. And it was when the Beloved had wrapped himself in these moments and knew only that he was grateful to have known such a feeling that Death took him by the arm and they stepped quietly away. Death sat himself down beside the Last, and turned to him, studying the tired but sweet creature who had been left behind. The Lasts dark eyes had once been bright and cheerful, dark like chestnuts and they had followed his Beloved’s every move. Now, they were clouded over with muck and his world was reduced to dark shapes and darker shapes. His hearing was unreliable, going in and out at odd intervals and it pained him because sometimes he thought he heard his name being called, very softly from far away. He would rise, his stiff joints fighting to hold him, and turn his face towards it, hoping to catch the sound again. But it would fade away on the wind as if it never were, and likely, it hadn’t been and he would lay himself down gingerly, his poor eyes and ears straining to catch some hint of his Beloved. It was like this that Death had found the Last, listening and waiting in the very same spot. Death reached a hand out and placed it lightly on the head of the grizzled dog, finding the gray hairs that crept from his chin across his muzzle and past his eyes to finally scatter haphazardly across his ears to be startingly endearing. As he was studying the dog’s face, he heard the weak but unmistakable sound of a tail thumping. It was muffled by the tall grass and, as Death listened closer, by the heart that was beating a bit slower and breaths that came a little later. Realizing it was almost time, he sat a little closer and placed the dog’s great head across his lap, scratching the ears that still strained to hear the voice he loved. So they sat this way, Death and the dog, in the backyard of the house he had been born in. It was the house where he had lived a good life with his people and was happy, where he had loved and been loved in return. Death listened closely, and the Last’s thoughts were lost in a summer afternoon long ago, when he was young and nothing hurt and he could run for hours beside his best friend. He was in the front seat of a car, his head out the window, and Death knew that the fur that blew back was gold, glinting in the sun without a trace of gray, and that his eyes could catch every single shape flashing by the car, even that rabbit that thought it moved too quick to be seen. And beside him in the driver’s seat with the radio turned up, sat his boy, his beloved. And he was singing along, badly, but neither cared because they were happy. And that was the moment Death took him, with his heart light and a hand on his head and clearly, without question or doubt, the Last heard a familiar voice calling for him, just a little ways away and off he went to his boy. The last good soul was swept away from earth, and it was still and quiet as Death thought of the dog, mourning quite suddenly the weight of his head laid upon him and the gentle determination to wag his tail, even as he lay dying. Death felt very empty and he sighed, but there was no one to hear it.