Doomless

The dead man stretched and yawned.

“What year is it?” he asked.

“19–,” I said. “You’ve been dead for fifty years.”

He nodded, and a somber expression came over his decayed features.

“And the Brahars?”

“All dead,” I said. “Dead and gone.”

“So was I,” he said after a pause.

“Not quite gone. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to wake you up.”

“I was dreaming,” he said.

“Still are, according to some philosophies.”

“I saw the world end.”

“All things must end.”

“Like me,” he sighed, lowering his head. “Why am I here? The Brahars are gone. I finished my work.”

“That I can’t tell you,” I said. He gazed at me, his colorless eyes full of sorrow. “I’m just fulfilling a contract.”

“Contract?”

“Yes,” I said, pulling out the old letter. “This is for you. It might explain things.”

He took the epistle and broke the wax seal which crumbled and fell to the floor. I watched him read it silently, his lips quietly mouthing the words. Suddenly, he laughed, a dry, pained chuckle.

“Dead and gone,” he said.

A wave of curiosity threatened to overwhelm my professionalism. He looked up at me and grinned.

“They hired you.” He laughed again. “Doomed to doomlessness. I go on past my purpose. An interesting curse.”