Since that fateful meeting with Kieran, Mors had been on edge, waiting for something significant to occur. In his 200-year tenure alongside Kieran, he had never experienced such a call to action before. The uncertainty gnawed at his insides, sending shivers down his spine.

On this rare night, Mors was resting in his apartment. Unlike most of his fellow Angels, who were confined to cramped dormitories, he was fortunate to have a place of his own, courtesy of Kieran. It was a small yet cozy space, equipped with all the essentials. But what Mors cherished most about his apartment was its proximity to a delightful deli and bakery combo.

Frequently patronizing the establishment, known as Sweet & Savory, Mors had become a familiar face to the owners - a sweet elderly couple who resided above the eatery. Tonight, he decided to pay them a visit.

Upon reaching the sidewalk in front Mors' attention was immediately drawn outside the deli when he caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure zipping past his field of vision. Curiosity piqued, he couldn't help but wonder what or who it could be. However, after a moment's consideration, there was no reason to be alarmed he chose to dismiss it and carry on with his current task.

Entering the deli, Mors greeted George, the aging man behind the counter. George possessed a gentle countenance, with kind brown eyes and thinning salt-and-pepper hair.

"Am I too late tonight, George?" Mors inquired, hoping to grab a bite to eat.

"It's never too late for our favorite customer!" George's face lit up with a warm smile as he prepared a plate containing a delectable sandwich and handcrafted chips. Mors grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and settled down at one of the empty tables. Closing time was looming, and the restaurant was deserted.

Seating himself across from Mors, George couldn't help but notice the weariness etched onto his face. Concern filled his eyes as he handed over the food.

"You look tired, my boy. Is your boss working you too hard?" George asked, his voice laced with genuine care.

Mors let out a weary laugh. "I don't have an easy job, George. It's been getting more challenging lately."

George placed his frail, veiny hand on top of Mors', offering comfort and support. Over the years, a bond had formed between them. George had taken a liking to Mors, treating him as his own grandson. At first, Mors resisted the affection, but eventually, he grew to appreciate having someone who genuinely cared about him.

As Mors glanced around the empty deli, a question tumbled out of his lips. "Did you send Florence home already?" His eyes scanned the room, searching for the cheerful little old lady who usually accompanied George.

"She's having a girls' night with some friends," George replied, his laughter filling the air. A warm smile crossed Mors' face at the thought of Florence enjoying herself.

The two of them continued to chat, their conversation meandering through various topics, while Mors finished his meal. As he got up to leave, he reached for his wallet, ready to pay. However, George swiftly raised his hand, a determined look in his eyes. "It's my treat today!" he insisted, leaving no room for argument.

Knowing there was no use in resisting, Mors shook his head in gratitude. "Thank you, George. I appreciate it."

"I'm just going to use the bathroom, and then I'll be out of your hair so you can close up and go home," Mors announced, using the excuse to allow George to leave the room. As he made his way towards the restroom, Mors discreetly placed some cash on top of the register.

Reaching the entrance, Mors was about to open the door when George's voice reached his ears. "You're always welcome here, Mors," George said, his smile radiating warmth.

Mors turned towards George, returning the smile with sincerity. "Thank you, George. Have a good night. Tell Florence I said hi!"

"Will do!" George waved him off, his eyes filled with affection.

Emerging from the deli, Mors couldn't shake off the earlier incident that had captured his attention. His intuition urged him to stay a little longer, keeping a watchful eye until George locked up the establishment. A sudden gust of wind swept through the area, creating an eerie atmosphere that sent a shiver down Mors' spine. Something just didn't feel right.

Twisting the ring on his finger, Mors concealed himself. His gaze remained fixed upon the deli from across the sidewalk, determined to uncover the truth. Soon enough, a shadowy figure clad in jeans and a black hoodie appeared, discreetly investigating the premises. Mors' instincts kicked in, sensing an otherworldly aura emanating from the mysterious figure. Intrigued yet cautious, he cautiously approached, inching closer to the scene.

In the midst of his approach, George emerged from the deli, seemingly unaware of the potential danger lurking nearby. Suddenly, the figure confronted George, catching his attention with a gruff voice. Drawing George's gaze towards his phone, the figure howes him something undoubtedly a picture. Seizing the opportunity, Mors hurriedly joined George's side, stealing a glimpse at the screen, only to realize that the image was a picture of himself. However, despite his extraordinary otherworldly invisibility, the enigmatic being somehow sensed his presence, causing Mors to grow increasingly uneasy.

Anxious and uncertain, the figure began scanning the surroundings, demanding answers from George. However, George' claimed his memory was failed him, claiming he couldn't recall much, and that he didnt know who the man in the image was. Without divulging any information, George promptly turned his attention away, securing the deli's entrance. Mors yearned for a closer look at the figure's face, but it vanished too quickly, leaving him without a chance.

This unsettling encounter deeply troubled Mors, yet he found solace in the fact that George had wisely refrained from disclosing any information. Gazing at the now darkened windows of the deli, a sense of warmth enveloped Mors. It dawned on him that his unwavering loyalty to the establishment over the years was not only due to its delectable offerings but also because of George's genuine care and concern for him. Now, the fear of placing the couple in harm's way gnawed at Mors' conscience.

Determined to unveil the truth and protect George and Florence, Mors embarked on a wandering journey, scouring every inch of several city blocks. The electric atmosphere that had previously hung in the air dissipated, leaving him with a sinking feeling that he had lost the elusive figure. As the weight of his thoughts grew heavier with each step, clouding his mind, Mors realized that walking alone wouldn't help clear his head. Seeking solace, he made a pit stop at a nearby convenience store, hoping to find something to drown out his racing thoughts. The mere thought of something happening to George and Florence filled him with immense guilt, and he couldn't bear the idea of blaming himself if tragedy struck.

After entering his passcode to unlock the door, Mors let out a deep sigh, feeling the weight of the day settle upon him. Making his way to the kitchen table, he set down the bottle with a slight clunk. With a careless flick, he kicked off his shoes in the general direction of the door. Grabbing a small shot glass from the cabinet, he placed it on the table with a sharp thud. Discarding his jacket over the back of the nearby chair, he sat down, ready to drown his troubles.

Digging into the depths of his jacket pocket, Mors retrieved a tattered notebook, its pages filled with scribbled notes and observations. With a heavy heart, he opened it up, adding the details of tonight's unsettling encounter to a blank page. Tomorrow, he resolved, he would have to make the journey to headquarters and report this incident to Kieran. The urgency of the situation weighed heavily on his mind, fueling a mixture of frustration and anger that bubbled within him.

Unable to contain his emotions any longer, Mors flung the notebook across the room in a fit of frustration, sending his thoughts scattering like confetti. The room seemed to absorb his discontent, the silence amplifying his inner turmoil. Seeking temporary solace, he reached for the decanter on the nearby table, pouring another shot of the amber liquid into his glass. With each sip, he attempted to replay the image of the arsonist in his mind, striving to extract any minute detail that could potentially connect them to the enigmatic figure he had encountered earlier. However, as the liquor flowed through his veins, his thoughts became increasingly blurred and fragmented, losing their clarity amidst the haze.

Resting his arm on the table, Mors found solace in the cool surface against his skin as he rested his head upon it. Exhaustion washed over him, and before he knew it, he succumbed to sleep, his eyes closing involuntarily.

Hours later, a familiar vibration from his ring jolted Mors awake. His eyes opened, recognizing the feeling of urgency. He took a deep breath and lifted his head, retrieving a white card from his suit pocket. His gaze fell upon the words written in neat lettering:

Franklin Obert,
73,
3:14am,
EOL
Whitemore Hospital Room 301

Mors couldn't help but cast one more glance at the card before him. It was a stark reminder that there are moments when death is simply an inevitable outcome, with no external factors to blame. In these cases, it was labeled as EOL, an abbreviation for End of Life.

Within the realm of mortality, there existed moments when the frail human body, worn down by the relentless passage of time, finally surrendered to its natural limits. These instances were not marked by accidents or illnesses but were instead a testament to the undeniable cycle of life. In the realm of medicine, such occurrences were often classified as "natural causes," a term used to explain the cessation of life. However, to the divine figures presiding over life and death, namely the God of Death and Angels, this transition was referred to as EOL, an acronym symbolizing the end of an individual's earthly journey.

For Mors, as an Angel tasked with guiding souls through their final transition, EOL cases held a unique significance. They served as a reminder of the fragility and impermanence of existence, prompting him to reflect on the profound mysteries of life and death.

Mors understood the weight of this designation. EOL signified a natural conclusion, an acceptance of the circle of life coming to a close. It was a reminder that even in the face of death, there was a delicate beauty to be found – the beauty of the human experience reaching its culmination, gracefully surrendering to the unknown.

Glancing at his watch, Mors noted with a groggy mind that it was 2:45am. Despite his pounding head, he swiftly put on his jacket and embarked on a search for his misplaced shoes. He had a quick thought about the figure from earlier, but had no time to focus on it. Determined, he stepped out into the night, knowing that as an Angel, it was his duty to be there to guide a soul's transition.

Approaching the hospital, Mors deactivated his ring, causing the entrance to open before him. Mors walked into the elevator to head up to the hospice wing in the hospital, located on floor 6. As he paused to wait on the elevator, he felt a familiar presence, he turned to see a familiar face. He smiled at her, and gave a slight bow in respect, and she returned the favor. The door opened and he motioned to let her in first. As they stepped in the elevator, she pressed floor 3, the maternity ward.
“It must be such a joy to bring souls into this world, instead of taking them out.” He said turning to the blonde haired woman in a cream colored dress.
“My job is only possible because of your job, Mors.”
The elevator dinged and she turned to look at him, “It was nice to see you again.” She said as she left the elevator. He watched her walk away before the doors closed and he continued on to floor 6, where he got out in search of room 301.

Upon entering, Mors beheld a frail man lying in the hospital bed, his weathered skin and relaxed expression indicating that he would likely pass away peacefully in his sleep. A younger woman had her head resting on the bed, holding the man's hand soundly asleep. Mors attentively listened to the rhythmic beeping of the hospital machines, observing as the man's heartbeat gradually slowed until it eventually ceased, resulting in the dreaded flatline. The machine emitted a piercing, sustained beep that abruptly roused the woman from her slumber, prompting her to burst into tears.

Amidst the sudden chaos that engulfed the room, Mors remained a calming presence, facilitating the soul's transition. Extending his hand, he gently grasped the departed's hand, leading him away from the distressing scene that unfolded before them.

With deep reverence, Mors inquired, "Are you Franklin Obert?" The newly departed soul nodded his head in a state of shock, a common reaction in these circumstances.

"I am Mors, an Angel of Death. I am here to guide you," Mors solemnly declared, waving his hand to conjure the familiar sight of an ornate wooden door before them. Franklin, his gaze dazed, fixated on the door.

Mors opened the door and gestured for the soul to take a seat at the table. Observing the white and gold teapot and cup on the table, Franklin's curiosity was piqued. Sensing his unasked question, Mors explained, "This is the waiting room on your journey to what lies ahead."

Franklin looked at Mors, his expression reflecting a mix of disbelief and acceptance. "So, I'm really dead? They won't attempt to bring me back again?"

A momentary sadness crossed Mors' face as he replied, "Some loved ones find it difficult to let go, but once an Angel has taken hold of your soul, there is no turning back."

Franklin appeared relieved by this revelation, yet sorrow still lingered. He shared, "That woman by my side was my daughter. Her mother, my wife, passed away a long time ago." His head sank onto the table momentarily before he raised it again, a smile gracing his face. "Will I get to see her again? My wife?"

Mors, filled with compassion, responded, "I wish I could assure you with certainty, but I do not know what awaits you once you are out of my sight. All I know is that I am here to guide you."

The man proceeded to recount stories of his family, his daughter, and his grandchild. As he shared these cherished memories, his sadness gradually dissipated. Mors patiently listened, allowing him to relive his happiest moments for as long as he desired.

Curiosity sparked, Franklin eventually inquired, "What happens now?"

Mors smiled warmly. "The drink before you," he began, pouring tea into a cup placed in front of the soul, "can help you release all your memories, enabling you to move on to the next phase unburdened."

Franklin picked up the cup, eyeing the tea thoughtfully. "Will I forget my wife and my family?"

Mors nodded understandingly. "Yes, you will."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Franklin's face as he pondered this. "Do I have to?"

Softly, Mors replied, "No, you don't." A small, comforting smile formed on his lips.

He sat down the cup.

"Franklin, are you ready?" Mors gently inquired.

After surveying the room one last time, Franklin turned back to Mors with a smile. "Yes, I am."

Leading the way, Mors opened the door. As always, the departing soul seemed to instinctively know what to do. However, this time, Franklin paused at the threshold, turning to Mors with a heartfelt expression. "Thank you."

The weight of those words struck Mors profoundly as he watched Franklin ascend the stairs onto his next journey.
He spoke the familiar words “be blessed on your journey.” And watched as the soul left his vision.

Mors quickly returned to the waiting room once the soul was out of sight to write up his report. He tried not to miss anything as he rushed through it, antsy to head to headquarters to report to Kieran.