The Danse Macabre

In the dim corner of a nearly deserted diner, where silence weighed heavier than the smell of stale coffee and grease, he sat alone. His fries, soggy and untouched, had long gone cold beside a half-empty cup of coffee. A spiral notebook lay open before him, its pages filled with dark sketches and heavier thoughts. He was alone, and he liked it that way. Or rather, he had convinced himself he did.

Then came a sudden rustle, and a girl plopped herself into the seat across from him with the grace of a theatre performer making an entrance. She snatched a fry, dipped it in ketchup, and gave it a taste. Her nose crinkled.

“I think I’m a mayo kind of girl. Like the Europeans,” she declared, wiping her hands on her black skirt without hesitation. “Hi, my name’s Saturday.”

He blinked. No one ever came to this part of the diner. Not the staff. Not the customers. Especially not strangers who looked like they stepped out of a Tim Burton sketchbook. But here she was—Saturday.

She was peculiar. Her alabaster skin had the delicate flawlessness of porcelain. Glossy black hair spilled under a small top hat. Crimson nails matched her lipstick. Fishnet stockings peeked beneath her combat boots and above her knees, her black skirt brushing just high enough to be noticed. A tuxedo jacket and a cane with a jester-headed skull completed her look. She was both surreal and theatrical.

“Who… are you?” he asked, stunned not only by her appearance but by the casual theft of a fry from his plate.

“I just told you,” she said, tapping the cane on the floor. “Saturday. And you’re Michael. I’ve been watching you for a while now.”

Michael recoiled slightly, confused and suspicious. “What do you want?”

She gestured at him with a frown. “Honestly? For you to shave, eat something that isn’t diner garbage, and stop treating grief like it gives you the right to rot. You look like a man mourning a decade.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “What do you know about mourning?”

A flicker of ancient sorrow crossed her eyes, and for a moment, the mask slipped. There was pain behind her crimson lips. Deep pain. Timeless pain. She said quietly, “More than you can possibly understand.”

Michael felt a chill crawl up his spine. “You’re here because of her, aren’t you? Allison.”

Saturday nodded. “She wouldn’t want this. Not this… crumbling version of you.”

He clenched his jaw. “Don’t speak about her. You don’t know her.”

“I know you drew her death,” she said, flipping the notebook toward herself. “Your version of Death: a skeletal monster with wings and a grin, lurking over a dying woman.”

“It’s what Death is,” Michael spat. “A parasite. A thief.”

“What if I told you… that she wasn’t taken?” Saturday said gently. “That maybe Death isn’t what you think at all?”

“Oh yeah? Then what is Death to you?”

Saturday smiled softly. “A dance.”

With a wave of her hand, the sketch transformed. Now, the skeletal figure wasn’t looming, but dancing—waltzing with a spirit glowing softly, while the human body lay peacefully in bed.

Michael stared in disbelief. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s the truth,” she said. “You see Loss. You confuse it with Death. They’re not the same. Loss is yours. Death is… transition.”

“Don’t lecture me!” Michael stood up abruptly, anger surging. “You don’t get to tell me how to grieve!”

“Sit down.”

She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t moved. But her command carried the force of eternity. Michael obeyed, trembling.

“You think Death is your enemy because you lost someone you love,” Saturday continued. “But that’s about you. Allison didn’t deserve death, true. But Death isn’t about deserving. It’s about timing.”

“She was everything to me…”

Saturday looked at him, then asked softly, “Would you like to see the future—what it would’ve been like if she had lived?”

Michael hesitated. “What…?”

She didn’t wait for permission. She waved her hand, and the diner shimmered.

Suddenly, Michael stood in a hotel room. He felt different, older—harder. A woman lay on the bed. Not Allison. Karen. Allison’s best friend.

They kissed. Michael groaned with guilty pleasure, feeling himself pulled along by a version of himself he didn’t recognize.

“No! That’s not me!” he shouted as the vision ended.

“It would have been,” Saturday said calmly. “Had she lived, Allison would’ve grown bitter. Illness would’ve consumed her. Children would’ve been impossible. She would’ve resented everything, including you.”

Michael shook his head, tears welling up. “So you’re telling me it was mercy?”

“I’m telling you it was reality.”

“I still can’t forgive you,” he whispered.

“You’re still making it about you.”

Saturday stood and extended her hand. “Come with me.”

Michael hesitated, then took it. Her hand was warm—alive, not cold as he expected. The world tilted and twisted. When it settled, they stood in a long-abandoned hospital ward.

A spectral woman stood at the far end of the room, muttering, clawing at the walls.

“That’s Millicent,” Saturday explained. “She died in 1943. A routine procedure gone wrong. But she never moved on.”

Michael watched, eyes wide, as the ghostly figure turned. Her face was skeletal, her eyes blazing with blue fire. She screamed—a sound so tortured, so agonizing that it shattered the silence.

“She’s still here?” he asked.

Saturday nodded. “Her husband grieved her so deeply, for so long, that he kept her here. He died in 1986… but by then, it was too late. She had been stuck between worlds for decades. Alone. Insane. Her grief chain-bound her.”

Michael looked at the pitiful soul. “What does this have to do with Allison?”

“She’s stuck too,” Saturday said quietly. “Because of you. Because you won’t let her go.”

He stumbled back. “No… no, I don’t want to trap her like that.”

“Then set her free. Let her join the Danse Macabre. Let her dance with eternity.”

Michael collapsed into a dusty chair, tears pouring freely. “I don’t know how.”

“You begin by living. One day at a time. Make your bed. Brush your teeth. Smile at strangers. Draw again. Laugh again. Eventually, the pain will dull—not vanish, but soften.”

“And I’ll forget her?”

“No,” she said gently. “You’ll remember her without breaking. That’s the difference.”

A memory rose—Allison in her ridiculous holiday dress, unknowingly wearing a pattern that made an elf look like it was popping out of her lower half. They had laughed for hours.

Michael smiled through his tears.

Saturday smiled back. “That’s how she should be remembered.”

Michael nodded. “It’s time. She deserves better.”

They returned to the diner in a blink. Michael picked up his pen and turned to a fresh page.

Saturday, now standing to leave, peered over his shoulder. The new sketch showed her—not as a monster, but dancing with spirits beneath the stars. He titled it Danse Macabre.

Outside the diner, a man leaned against the wall smoking a cigarette. “You should quit those,” Saturday quipped, “before they kill you.”

The man chuckled. “If only.”

“She’s free,” Saturday said softly.

“You did good, sister,” the man said, exhaling a smoke ring shaped like a heart.

“Thanks,” she replied. “Next stop: a seven-year-old girl not surviving her transplant. My job sucks most days, but today… today, I helped a soul find peace.”

From beyond, they saw her—Allison, vibrant again, smiling, waving.

She was ready to join the Danse.

Moral of the Story:

Grief is the weight of love left behind, but clinging to it can trap both the living and the dead. True love lets go—not to forget, but to remember with light instead of sorrow. Death is not a villain but a part of the eternal dance that connects all life.