The street light stood, slightly tipsy, illuminating the path just to the left of its intended target. The rain sliced the beam into tiny scratches, each drop cat clawing through on its way to the ground. Or so it thought. It paused part way, deciding to divert away from straight down.

Death stood there.

He had rested his scythe against the post and was taking a long draw from his cigarette, attempting to, but failing, blow smoke circles.

One of these millennia.

He turned as Della walked past, her nose buried in the flowers she'd just been given by her partner. She was smiling broadly, and Death could see her heart was full.

He checked his list before taking a final puff of the cigarette.

"Maybe tomorrow, instead."