The Meaning Of Death

Flames died. Sound died. Light died.

Anghammarad.

Anghammarad looked at his hands. There was nothing there except heat, furnace heat, blasting heat that nevertheless made the shapes of fingers.

Anghammarad, a hollow voice repeated.

“I Have Lost My Clay,” said the golem.

Yes, said Death, that is standard. You are dead. Smashed. Exploded into a million pieces.

“Then Who Is This Doing The Listening?”

Everything there was about you that isn’t clay.

“Do You Have A Command For Me?” said the remains of Anghammarad, standing up.

Not now. You have reached the place where there are no more orders.

“What Shall I Do?”

I believe you have failed to understand my last comment.

Anghammarad sat down again. Apart from the fact that there was sand rather than ooze underfoot, this place reminded him of the abyssal plain.

Generally people like to move on, Death hinted. They look forward to an afterlife.

“I Will Stay Here, Please.”

Here? There’s nothing to do here, said Death.

“Yes, I Know,” said the ghost of the golem. “It Is Perfect. I Am Free.”

It’s not unusual for a Terry Pratchett story to make me laugh. It is unusual for one to make me cry. This made me cry because I was so happy.

Thank you, Sir Terry.

Thank you.

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