Silence. The rain was still hammering, with its rhythm outpaced only by my wildly beating heart. "What are you doing out so late? And in the rain and cold, no less? Don't you know you might get sick? Where are your parents?"

Beth looked at me startled, and I knew that she was thinking of a way out.

"Don't lie to me, Beth," I said, "I will know."

"Well," Beth began, "you see, sir-um, William, by Gran is in the hospital, and-"

"Is she–" I began to ask, fearing the worst.

"Oh no, she's okay. Well, she got dizzy the other day, and they brought her here. But my mom told me she was gonna be okay."

"Well that's good," I replied, thankful that I would not have to know Beth in my other form.

"But, well... I just kept thinking and thinking, and I thought that it must be real lonely, being there all by herself," Beth continued.

"No doubt."

"And I thought my doggie could make her happy!"

I finally remembered the dog. "But Beth," I began, "dogs aren't allowed in. You mom should know that."

Beth was silent.

"Your mother doesn't know you came, does she?"

Beth looked more fearful than she had when she first saw me from the shadows. "Please, please don't tell my mom!" she cried.

I considered her for a moment. Minutes prior, she saw me as a necromancer. And now, after only a short conversation, she viewed me like so many other adults in her life. Relatives. Teachers. Someone who cared enough for her wellbeing to report her transgressions to her mother. Childhood innocence was a truly beautiful thing.

After some thought, I decided on a compromise. "I'll make a deal with you, Beth. I won't tell your mother, but I can't promise you that your Gran won't. But you had to expect her to scold you anyway, right?"

Beth's eyes beamed with excitement. "You mean I can bring Whisper in to my Gran?"

"It isn't allowed, but I would expect them to make an exception for their resident necromancer," I said as I turned back towards the entrance to the hospital. "Do you know what floor your Gran is on?"

I had taken several steps before I realized that Beth was not following me. I stopped and turned around, and could tell that she was deep in thought about something. "Is everything okay?" I asked.

"William, you're very nice," Beth said.

Whatever I might have anticipated for this child to say, I did not expect this. "Thank you," I said, fighting to hold back tears.

"But why are you a necromancer?" she asked.

"I've often wondered the same thing," I replied after gathering myself. But this was unsatisfactory, and Beth still didn't budge. I continued, "I always wanted to do something that would make me feel special. And having power to bring people back–well, I thought that would make me special. But it wasn't just that. I help people. People have an easier time, uh, well, dying, if they think they can come back."

I could tell that she didn't understand. And how could she? She was too young for such horrible things like death and loss and grief. And she had yet to feel an urge to rise up and to be someone "important." She was already in the most tranquil stage of her life, and she wouldn't realize it until it was too late.

Beth eventually found her words. "You're a person though, right William?"

I wanted to tell her that I often questioned this myself, but instead I told the truth as I understood it by nodding affirmatively.

"Is someone dying now?" Beth inquired.

I didn't know how to respond. I didn't want to scare her. But I also wanted to treat her with respect, as she had with me. I decided to tell her the truth, with the hope that the truth would not bring about a substantial disruption of her blissful ignorance.

"Yes, someone is dying now. But he's an old man, who has lived for a very long time."

I hoped her questions would end there, but I was prepared to give her more if she requested it.

"And you're going to bring him back?"

"No."

A look of shock spread across this child's face. "I don't get it."

"I can only bring people back if they give me something in return. But I don't always get something. The person who is going to die tonight, well... he doesn't have anything to give me in exchange. And it would only be fair for me to bring him back if he could play his part and give me something in return. Does that make sense?"

I couldn't look her in the face as I divulged this. She would hate me for this. I knew she would. And I wouldn't be able to blame her–I hated myself, too. Only a monster tries to profit off of sorrow and mortality, and to deny people a last chance to be with their loved ones due to a lack of funds was something far more repulsive than a mere monster.

"I don't make the rules, Beth," I said, still not daring to see her reaction, "I am forced to behave in a certain manner. The Order of Necromancy is.. well, it's like school. You have to follow the rules. If you don't, you get in trouble."

I finally dared to look down into Beth's face. What I saw wasn't loathing, or disgust, but mere childish curiosity. "But if you aren't going to bring him back, then why are you here?" she finally asked after what seemed like an eternity.

I was so relieved that Beth didn't seem to hate me that I found myself crying for the first time in many years. I knew that the darkness, alongside the damp air, would make it difficult for Beth to tell, and I hoped that she couldn't. After calming myself down enough to steady my voice, I said, "It's because the family wants me to be there. You see, when a necromancer is there, it gives dying people a feeling of security. They expect to be brought back, and they have an easier time dying."

"Why?"

"Because they don't think it's actually the end for them."

"But it is?"

"Yes. You see, sometimes a family doesn't have enough to give me for me to bring someone back to life, but they want the person who is dying to think that I am going to bring them back. So they give me a little bit, and in exchange I will stand in the room while the person dies. Deaths like this are usually fairly smooth, because they do not tell the person who is dying that they will not be coming back to life, but because they think that they will be they are more at ease with the idea of passing on."

Beth seemed to be deep in thought. She seemed to be a very clever little girl, and I was unsure of what I could expect from her. I hadn't told her that the practice of deathbed comfort was most commonly used for children belonging to indigent families, and I hoped that the subject would be be breached by this very smart young person. Finally, she said, "So you are there so that people are not afraid when they die?"

I pondered this for a moment. "Well, I guess you could think about it that way."

To my surprise, Beth's smile had returned. "That's a very nice thing to do! You ARE a nice person!"

She took my hand and led me inside, and moments later I was back at the side of Mr. Brent Felix's deathbed. Once again gazing into oblivion. He wouldn't die for some time yet. But he soon would. And eventually his son would join him. And eventually I would, too. And so would Beth. While we are living, we are dying. Adults build the world, but children arguably got the most out of it. For what was a good life, if not a pure one? What was the sense of resurrection, if someone lived a life with no regret? Perhaps childlike ignorance of the world and its evils was the happiest sort of existence. Maybe I could still find a childlike joy for life somewhere within myself–a glowing aura within the oblivion.