Even Death needs a moment.
When the graves are quiet and the wails of the damned fall silent, the Reaper leans back, cloaked in shadow, and lights his cigarette. Each puff is the smoke of centuries, the ash of empires, the breath of kings and beggars alike.
This isn’t rest. It’s ritual. A pause between the endless harvests, a reminder that even eternity has its intermissions. While mortals claw for another day, Death savors the ones he’s already claimed, rolling them across his tongue like a well-aged whiskey, exhaling them into the dark.
Coffin Break isn’t about peace. It’s about patience. The Reaper always returns to work, but never before finishing his smoke.
