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Reaper, death guide, post life concierge. Whatever one wants to call it, it’s my job. And apparently, because nobody likes an unhappy soul, I have to do it with something resembling a smile. It’s in the Reaper Regulations Guidebook. Which I find absurd, of course. I died centuries ago and any customer service I had left in me evaporated somewhere between the devastation of the plague and the invention of social media
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