She'd shown up at the bookstore every day since the start of the winter season with a pen, a journal, and a pad of post-it notes stuffed in her bag. She spoke in metaphors, and sarcasm rolled off of her tongue like it was second nature to her. Her name was December, and Greyson Kaye couldn't keep himself from falling...
A smile crossed Death's cold, skeleton face. "Looks like you're out of a job," he told her. The angel looked up at him, shocked. "I-it's not as easy as it looks," she insisted. [A compilation of short stories that are sometimes about life, but mostly about Death.]