I. Death

After the funeral, she dreamt that Death came to her.

It was dark and black and fetid. It had no face, and she hated it, but she wanted it and she didn't know why. The black veil she'd worn to say her final goodbyes was smothering her, and she fought it, fought like hell to make it go away, but it wouldn't go away.

Right before it took her, before she let herself go, he was there, shining and golden and as perfect as the day he left her, and he sliced the shroud off of her and helped her stand up.

"Go on," he told her, and she knew what he meant.

And she went on.