This Small Infinity

Lyra Adney, Canada

Death strodes into the diner as the clock strikes midnight, a flurry of snowflakes swirling at her feet, white scarf billowing from around her neck like a bridal train. Above the door, a flock of glass-blown birds captured mid-flight chimes, signifying her arrival. 

The diner is empty — save for a tired looking waitress, who glances when she enters. The sound of jazz, along with the aroma of freshly baked lasagna, pours out of the open doors and into the night, and Death pauses. Considers. Then lets the door shut behind her. 

She chooses a seat tucked in the corner, running a finger down the grooves and scratches on the table. The window beside her is smudged with fingerprints, and she catches a glimpse of her reflection on the glass before her gaze slides outside to watch the softly falling snow. 

“We close in thirty minutes,” the waitress calls, pausing from her sweeping to peer up at Death. Death notices the tired look in her eyes, the checkered waitress uniform that hangs loosely on her tiny frame, a spot of dried ketchup near the sleeve. Her name tag spells out Brynn in lopsided, childish handwriting. “What can I get you?” 

“Just a cup of coffee, please. Black, no sugar.” 

The waitress nods, leaning the broom against the wall. Her chipped nails, hastily painted in an electric blue, tap against the handle absentmindedly as she considers Death. “Have we met before? You look familiar.” 

Death shrugs. “No, though I get that a lot.”

This, of course, was a lie. Death was acquainted with Brynn — perhaps more familiar with her than she was with most people. She had met Brynn first when she was a baby, with pink cheeks and tiny fists punching the sky. Death had swept into the delivery room, her white scarf brushing against the sterile walls of the hospital. Brynn’s heartbeat had stopped for ten seconds, and so Death had cradled her for that long, her slender fingers stroking her cheek. The doctors had resuscitated her, though, preventing Death from getting a closer look. 

A decade later, Death met Brynn again. It was the bright, fluorescent lights of a hospital corridor, the sharp tang of antiseptics hung heavy in the air. Death found her way in the operating room, brushing past Brynn, who clutched a torn map to her chest. It was a car accident, the doctors had murmured after they declared the time of death. A family trip to the Grand Canyon, just the two of them. Her chest heavy with a feeling almost like regret, Death wrapped her white scarf around Brynn’s mother. The gash on her forehead stained her scarf crimson. She weighed almost nothing in Death’s arms as her face smoothed over, the lines of happiness and sorrow erased as easily as pencil marks upon a page. 

When Death finally left the operating room that day, she could’ve sworn Brynn looked right at her - could see her, and she supposed that in some ways, she could. 

Perhaps that was why she’d grown so interested in Brynn. She watched Brynn in pigtails, at ten, crying in the arms of an unfamiliar aunt as they lowered a casket into the soil. Brynn had pressed a kiss to the cheap oak casket, the brush so gentle it was as if she thought her mother could feel it on her skin. Death was there when Brynn grew older - middle school, then high school, curly red pigtails replaced by long straight hair. There were the days when she seemed to transform into something quieter, darker - she took down the posters of the world map she’d tacked onto her wall, with all of the places she wanted to visit circled in bright blue. Those days, Death had sat beside her silently, almost like a friend, though Brynn had not known it.

Death is pulled out of this memory by Brynn, who sets down her coffee on the table, alongside a slice of lasagna. 

“Devin — that’s our chef — says never to leave lasagna overnight,” Brynn says. She gives Death an appraising glance. “I thought you’d like some.” 

Maybe it was this slice of lasagna. Maybe it was the clock striking twelve, or the softness of the world outside, blanketed by the softly falling snow. Maybe it was just Brynn. Whatever the reason, Death does something she has not done in a long, long time. She talks. 

“I met your mother once,” she says, and watches as Brynn’s eyes widen, her hand moving imperceptibly to her forehead. “I am sorry about the accident,” Death continues, truthfully. She places a pale hand over Brynn’s own, and watches as Brynn holds her breath, then finally, finally, lets it out, like a manacle, finally unlocked. 

What comes out is a torrent of stories, and Death finds herself captivated by Brynn’s gesturing hands as she speaks of their bright blue Porsche, and the hundreds of kilometers they traveled. The stories of mountains that pierce the sky and springwater so clear you could see the darting silver minnows bleed deep into the night, but underneath it all, Death senses the pulsing undercurrent of pain and loneliness— steady like a second heartbeat. 

The poets and writers will not describe her as such, but Death considers herself merciful. So when Brynn falls silent, her chest heaving, Death stands her hands on Brynn’s shoulders and looks her in the eye. 

“Brynn? If you could forget everything about her, if I could erase it all and let you start again, as a blank canvas, would you want me to?”

She watches as the thought forms in Brynn’s mind; Death can imagine the allure of it, cold and smooth like silk on a hot summer’s night. Yet. . .

“No,” Brynn finally says. Her eyes are red-rimmed as she peers up at Death. “This feeling… I wouldn't trade it for the world.” 

Death smiles. Steps back. For eons upon eons she has walked the Earth. She has seen hundreds of civilizations rise, and hundreds more fall. Her hands have touched bleached bones and fragile skin, borne witness to death and life and the endless way they bleed into each other. But the moments she holds closest to her chest — like precious gems — are moments like this. 

She places a few bills on the table, inclines her head towards the half-eaten lasagna and empty coffee cup. “Thank you for the meal. I should get going now.” The first rays of sunlight peer through the window. She exhales, stretching like a cat underneath the sun. “I have a long day ahead.” 

She’s at the doorway when Brynn speaks. 

“This will be the last time I see you?” She asks, but it is not quite a question. It sounds more like the acknowledgement of something deep and hidden. Her voice rings with relief — like the sound of rain meant to quench a long, scorching drought. 

“Yes. Until a long, long while.” 

“And… And that’s okay?”

Death tilts her head, her back to Brynn and her face tilted towards the sky. Considers. “I think that’s okay. Don’t you?” 

And then she lets the door shut behind her. 

*~* 

Brynn watches her go, her form is swallowed by the darkness. A question — something left unanswered — hangs in the air, but she cannot recall the question, much less the answer. Strangely, the face of the woman was fading from her mind, leaving only the faintest memory of a long white scarf. She looks at the softly falling snow, and is surprised to find herself trembling. 

That night, Brynn’s dreams are a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes and memories. She dreams of everything she had wanted to see since she was a child — the midnight sun, the polar night. The chasm of the Grand Canyon, the endless, robin-blue of the Blue Grotto. But most of all, she dreams of her mother. The way the light reflected in her eyes as she looked out to the sea, as if she believed the blue waves stretched forever and forever and forever. Perhaps it did. 

Brynn wakes up in the morning with the taste of salt. And she does what she had been scared to do for a long time. Brynn pulls out the crate of old photo books, maps and travel brochures, blowing the dust from their pages. 

She thinks about herself, of the monotonous days she lives, stretching into infinity, as the realization hits her - there are choices. There always are. How she chose to live after her mom died, who she loved, what to pursue, where to live - to travel. And whether or not she decided to take those risks.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Brynn opens up the folded map, the taste of salt a reminder of rushing waves and endless blue— her own, small, infinity.

Lyra Adney is a Chinese Canadian student who dabbles in flashfiction and short stories from time to time. Her pen name is inspired by the a constellation under the same name, representing a harp. Outside of writing, Lyra enjoys baking and occasionally going outside for a nice walk when it's raining.