There’s a reason nobody talks about the retirement plan for the Grim Reaper. And that reason is a four-day long contract that nobody reads until they’re a few centuries into the job and their bones start creaking like a haunted house. No one ever checks the fine print because, well, who expects a lass who snatches souls from the mortal realm to have anything resembling a pension Nest? It’s only after centuries of scything that the harsh truth hits you: You’re stuck, like a fly in amber, except the fly is you, and the amber is eternity.

The Grim Reaper sat hunched over a sad, cluttered desk in a cubicle that looked like it hadn’t seen a thorough cleaning since the Black Death. In the corner, her scythe was propped up like a forgotten umbrella, gathering dust. The dim, flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like an angry wasp that wouldn’t go away. The place smelled faintly of mildew, stale coffee, and something else—something that could only be described as “existential dread” mixed with the unmistakable stench of being stuck.

“So,” I said, sliding my mug of coffee across the desk to avoid looking directly at her. “You’ve been doing this for how long?“

The Reaper didn’t look up from her paperwork. “Oh, since time started making sense. Roughly. Give or take a few eons. I’m not really sure, to be honest. Time’s a bit… fluid when you’re me.”

I blinked. “So, a few billion years. No big deal. Are you like… a contractor, or is there a boss?”

The Reaper chuckled, the sound like glass marbles clinking against granite. “Oh, there’s a boss. We all report to a higher… authority. But let’s not get into that, alright? They don’t pay enough for me to discuss their leadership style. Trust me, you don’t want to know what it’s like working for The Upper Management.“

I nodded solemnly, unsure if I was about to hear something scandalous or terrifying. “Gotcha. So, um… when do you get a break? Like, a real one? You’re probably due for some time off after all these years.”

The Reaper’s skeletal fingers paused on the form she was filling out, and for the briefest moment, I saw something that could have been despair—except it was so ancient and hollow that it became something I don’t have a name for. “Breaks? You think I get breaks?” Her voice was a rasp, but there was an edge to it. “I don’t get breaks, kid. I get paperwork.”

“Paperwork?” I echoed, trying not to let out a nervous laugh.”

Yeah, paperwork.” She leaned back in her chair—a creaky, ancient thing that probably had faded lots of long-dead office workers in its time. “You think this job is just about reaping souls, huh? That’s the fun part. The paperwork? That’s the nightmare.”

She picked up a stack of forms and tapped them on the desk with a sound that could’ve been mistaken for the rattling of bones if you didn’t know better. “I’ve got a filing cabinet full of complaints. And forms. And surveys. Do you have any idea how much I hate surveys? And don’t even get me started on the soul rating system.”

I blinked again. “Soul rating system?”

“Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes—which, as a skeleton, is a remarkable feat. “After I take a soul, they rate me on a scale of one to five stars. If I don’t get five stars, I have to go back and explain myself. All the way back to the beginning. And if they’re really unhappy, they get to file a complaint. That’s where it gets ugly.”

“Wait,” I said, holding up my hand. “So, you’re not just collecting souls—you’re also doing customer service?”

The Reaper stared at me for a long moment, then sighed like an old woman on a porch who had been asked the same question one too many times. “You think this job is glamorous? Let me tell you about the last time a soul rated me poorly. It was an angry guy named Jono who didn’t like the fact that he died in a potato sack race. He gave me a one star review. One star! After all the effort I put in, Jono thought I was too abrupt. That’s the level of entitlement we’re dealing with. Do you know how many forms I had to fill out? Three.”

“Three? You filled out three forms for a one-star review?” I asked, incredulously.

“Well, technically four, but one of them was an ‘escalation form.’ You don’t even want to know about that. I had to go all the way up to middle management in the afterlife. Do you know what a nightmare it is dealing with bureaucratic souls? They’ll argue about everything.”

I took a long, thoughtful sip of my coffee. “And you can’t just… retire? You’ve been at this job for—what—eons, and you can’t clock out?”

The Reaper paused, then leaned forward, her skull gleaming in the dim light. “I would retire if I could. But the paperwork is… well, it’s not just the filing. It’s the rules.” She gestured vaguely at the ceiling, as though the cosmos itself were watching. “You don’t just walk away from this job. There’s no pension, no retirement fund, and definitely no insurance. And if I retire, someone else has to take over. Someone who might not be as good at it. Someone who might decide to get all compassionate and mess up the whole system.”

I stared at her. “Wait. So, you’re telling me you don’t get a retirement plan?”

“Nope. No pension. No sick days. Not even any kind of decent job expenses. I’ve tried. They told me to ‘go to HR,’ and when I did, they handed me a brochure about ‘spiritual wellness,’ then tried to upsell me a 10-step program for feeling at peace with eternal existence.”

“Wow,” I said, incredulously. “That’s… terrible.”

The Reaper sighed deeply. The kind of sigh you make when you’ve just realized there’s no way out, and it’s fine because you’re used to it. Or it’s not fine, but you gave up. “Yeah. I tried taking a personal day once. Just one. I was feeling kind of down, you know? It happens. So, I filled out the proper forms and— bam —they denied it. ‘You must attend mandatory transcendence training first,’ they told me. So I sat through six hours of a cosmic wellness seminar where they handed out pamphlets about ‘letting go’ and ‘embracing the void,’ while I was expected to meditate in the presence of 500 other souls who were also dead but in varying stages of denial about it.”

“That sounds… horrible,” I said, cringing.

“Tell me about it. Do you know how hard it is to meditate while holding a scythe?” The Reaper shook her head. “And the worst part? When I got back, they made me fill out a post-wellness survey.”

I choked on my coffee. “A survey?”

“Oh yeah. They made me fill out a satisfaction survey to gauge how ‘centered’ I felt after the experience. Then they asked if I’d recommend the ‘transcendental meditation for soul-harvesters’ program to a friend. I said no, and they made me write a comment explaining why. Do you know how long it took me to type that comment on this keyboard with these skeletal fingers? Two hours.”

I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. “Two hours? To fill out a comment about why you hated transcendental meditation? For a mandatory wellness program?”

“Exactly,” the Reaper grumbled, shifting in her chair with a clink. “And after all that, what did I get? Nothing. No vacation. No relaxation. Just more forms. No one ever told me about this side of the job. When I signed up for the gig, I thought I’d be, you know, snatching souls and delivering justice. Instead, I’m stuck here in a cubicle, collecting complaints and explaining to souls why they can’t have another chance at life. It’s like I’m the customer service representative for the afterlife, only I don’t get any of the perks.”

I stared at her. “So… why don’t you just quit?”

“Quit?” The Reaper gave a humorless laugh, her skeletal face creaking. “Quit? If I quit, the system falls apart. That’s why I can’t retire. There’s no one else who can handle the soul-collection business with my level of efficiency. And do you think anyone else could deal with the sheer whining from the newly deceased? No. I’m the only one who can keep things running smoothly. I’m too good at it.”

Talking about being a victim of your own success.

“But you hate it.”

“Of course I hate it! Who wouldn’t? You think I want to spend eternity managing paperwork and listening to souls gripe about their afterlife experiences? All I wanted was a little peace and quiet! A beach vacation with a cocktail, maybe, while I read The hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy for the hundrenth time. Just a day off where I don’t have to face an angry ghost or deal with… well, whatever you call this situation.” She gestured at the chaotic clutter of forms and file folders.

I leaned back in my chair, finally putting my coffee down. “I think you need therapy.”

The Reaper chuckled dryly. “I’d go, but… you guessed it: paperwork.”

And with that, she grabbed her scythe, adjusted her robe with a sigh, and turned to leave. “Duty calls. I’ve got another soul to ‘gently escort’ to the afterlife. Wish me luck with the ‘customer satisfaction’ form afterward.”

As she shuffled toward the door, I called after her, “Hey, next time you’re filling out a form, please remember to rate your experience with me. I’m aiming for five stars.”

Without turning, the Reaper gave a mock salute. “Yeah, yeah. If I survive the paperwork, I’ll make sure to give you a glowing review.”

And with that, she disappeared into the abyss of her eternal, paperwork-filled existence.