There was a house at the end of the street.

It was beautiful, full of light and life.

And I couldn’t touch it. Not yet.

After all it would be rude to go somewhere I wasn’t needed. All the other houses in the neighborhood had been touched in some sort of way. Perhaps because of a four legged friend who ate just a little too much chocolate, or a sister who thought it easier to take her life than report the wretched people who drove her to such sadness.

It was my job to take care of those beautiful souls once their time to pass came, so I did.

But somehow the house at the end of the street had always managed to escape my grace.

Until one day it didn’t.

I still remember the sound of anguish that came from the house when it happened. I knew the sound all too well and went to investigate. The house had a solemn feeling to it, and it had the right to. There within it’s walls laid an ancient woman, lost in the sweet embrace of sleep, and her husband who awoke to find she would never wake again.

It was scenes like these that made everything a bit harder. but she was such a beautiful soul.

“Am I dead?” She asked me, her voice quiet.

“I am afraid so,” was the only way I could answer. She simply smiled and nodded.

“Shame, that is. I still had a few things left I wanted to do.” And with a small, raspy laugh, she nodded.

With that, I took her fragile hand in mine and led her out of the house, and to a place just as beautiful and full of light as the house at 3412 Maplewood Road.