Death Drops By

Death opening up mildly irritated:

Look, before you read whatever the marketing department has cooked up, I'd just like to state for the record that none of this was my idea. I was having a perfectly ordinary day-well, ordinary for me-until a Thread with the enthusiasm of a caffeinated squirrel dragged me across the cosmos and into a grocery store parking lot. My socks have not recovered. Anyway. Proceed.

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Death is having a terrible day. The Universe is glitching, Threads are wobbling, and his socks are wet-again. Then a particularly pushy Thread drags him across time, space, and a grocery store parking lot to the front door of twelve‑year‑old Molly Martin... who opens it, looks him dead in the eye, and says he's "not supposed to be real."

Which is rude, but also correct.

Now Death-armed with a squeaky scythe, a crooked name tag, and zero answers-must figure out why a living kid can see him, why her Thread behaves like a hyper tour guide, and why the Universe seems to be rearranging itself without filing the proper paperwork.

Molly just wants snacks.

Death just wants dry socks.

The Universe wants... well, that's the problem.

And things are about to get much weirder.

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Molly (leaning in like she's sharing a secret she's not suppose to tell)

If you think he told you everything, he didn't. He forgot the part where he got startled by the cat and yelled at my Thread like it owed him money. Which it doesn't, by the way. My Thread is just... super dramatic.

Also, he keeps acting like I'm the weird one, but he's the one who showed up on my porch dripping cosmic goo and complaining about his socks like that was somehow my problem. And now he's telling everyone this is "totally under control," which is hilarious, because nothing is under control. At all. Anyway, since you're still here, you're basically stuck with us.

Welcome to the weird.