The town was located on a small, rocky planet away from any large, governing body, which made it a preferable place to repair my body while there was still a bounty on my head. The settlement was made of standard, collapsible colony buildings. I marched into the city. Sparks spat from multiple damaged areas on my body, but my poncho covered most of it.

Robots like me, of course, do not have need for ponchos. I only wear one because, during my analysis of behavior from various intelligent life forms, the sight of weapons generally puts one on edge, as does the sight of a large, armored robot. I calculated that if I eliminated one of the stressors to most intelligent species, I could increase the number of clients I received by six percent. The Gunslinger Guild would be most pleased with such performance. The hat also added another 0.5 percent.

I stepped into the colony’s saloon. It was all metal, of course. All colony buildings were created with various kinds of alloys. But padding was added to the chairs to keep the fragile, fleshy humans who populated the colony comfortable when they sat. I did not need padding. Then again, I was not sitting.

I walked up to the bartender, who cleaned a glass as he watched me with a steady gaze. His movements were stiff, and his posture rigid. But it was not necessary to fear me unless I had my weapons drawn. Behavior of organics always confused me.

The bartender took a deep breath. Probably to help with confidence. “I saw your ship outside. You part of the Gunslinger Guild?”

I stepped up to the bar. “That is correct.”

The bartender shrugged in a false relaxed gesture. “There ain’t anyone here who I can think of who would have a bounty on them. Except maybe Bill.”

“This ‘Bill’ does not concern me,” I said. “I am in need of repairs. Do you have a roboticist in your colony?”

The bartender shrugged again. “Yeah, you do look pretty out of shape. But I don’t reckon he’s worked on anythin’ like you. Only maintenance droids and service bots.”

“Where is he located?”

The bartender gestured through the doorway. “Other side of the street. He’s got a big sign that says ‘Tracer’s.’ That’s his shop.”

“Thank you for your assistance.”

I turned and walked toward the door. I noticed that the room was silent aside from my footsteps that clanged against the floor. Everyone in the saloon stared at me. Some had violent glares. Others had eyes wide open on their pale faces. I didn’t understand why organics had so many different expressions. Why did they need to display the result of data processed inside their minds through a physical reaction? It was not necessary.

The air outside was dry and dusty. The surface of the planet was mostly brown and lifeless. My initial scans during my approach told me the planet was devoid of vegetation found on most other worlds. There were still some plants, but most of the surface was devoid of life. Only dirt and rocks. Most organics would find it boring. I do not feel boredom.

I crossed the street and found the shop that the bartender referred to. I entered the door and found myself in a very messy room. That was one thing I did not like about organics. They never cleaned up their things. Everything is always unorganized. I do not know how they can find things when they need them.

This mess was made from pieces of robots, very few of them belonging to androids like me. Most were utility bots, like the bartender said. Not many advanced bots.

At the back of the room was a short human male with a balding head and a white beard. His back was to the door, and he worked at a desk on some kind of circuit board. I could not identify it properly, nor did I intend to. It was not necessary. The human hummed a melody to himself until I stomped across the shop. He froze and slowly turned from his desk. He lifted the goggles from his eyes and beamed wildly.

“A Gunslinger,” he said. “A real Gunslinger! I’ve never seen one in person before. But I’ve studied your kind.”

I stepped up to his desk. “I need repairs. I was in an encounter with bounty hunters, and they damaged my body.”

The human’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Well, I suppose I should get right on that, huh? My name’s Tracer, by the way. Job Tracer. What’s your designation?”

“H4-NK.”

Job Tracer gasped. “No! You aren’t the H4-NK, are you? Hank, the Metal Gunslinger?”

I knew I had grown quite a reputation during my many years of service to the Gunslinger Guild, but I did not know that my operations would be known on such a remote world. “Yes, I am the one they call Hank. But the title ‘Metal Gunslinger’ is redundant, as all Gunslingers are metal.”

Job laughed. A strange organic behavior. “No, you don’t understand. There might be other metal Gunslingers out there, but you’re the Metal Gunslinger. There’s nothing like you!”

“There are many like me,” I said. “I have simply lasted longer than any of the other Gunslingers.”

“Exactly! That’s what makes you so special!”

“There is nothing special about it.”

Job barked another laugh. “Whatever you say, Hank.” He grabbed a tool from his desk. “Alright. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

A red light shined from the tool and ran across my body. When Job was done, the light switched off, and the tool beeped. Job squinted at the small monitor on the tool.

“Well,” he said, “the scanner says that most of the damage is minimal. You do have have a pretty bad hole blasted through your chest. I’ll have to take your poncho off to work on that. But if we assess all the damage, the total cost will be 1,426 credits.”

I checked my current balance. It was down to 164. I sent a request for more funds from the Guild. But the computer sent back a message informing me that I had already used up the whole quarter’s allowance on repair funds. If I was to get any more credits, I would have to earn them myself.

“I am sorry,” I said, “but I am out of credits. I will search for a nearby job and come back to you.”

Job shrugged. “Sorry, Hank. I would offer to do it for free, but business has been slow lately. I can’t afford that.”

“I will find the credits you require. I shall return. Thank you for your service.”

Job laughed and gave a mock salute. “Anytime.”

***

I returned to the saloon and approached the bartender. He looked up at me, and the saloon was silent as before. I stepped up to the bar. I noticed a slight shiver in the bartender.

“Back again, huh?” he said. “What can I do you for?”

“I need work. Are there any tasks in need of a Gunslinger?”

“Well, I don’t—“

“You looking for work?”

The voice came from behind me. I turned around and found a large man with a long, red beard. He stepped away from his table toward me, leaving his beverage behind.

“You heard correctly,” I said. “Do you have a job?”

“I found quite a bit of copper in my mine and stashed it in a crate. But before I could get back with my hovercraft to haul it back to the colony, the mine caved in. I need someone to get the copper out of there. I don’t want the mine unblocked because it clearly isn’t stable, and I don’t want to send a person in there because… well, it’s unstable.”

“Indeed,” I said. “So, you want me to go in there because I’m a robot and more expendable than an organic being. Am I right?”

Perspiration appeared on the man’s brow, and his eyes dropped to the ground. He shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t put it that way…”

“Do not worry about offending me. I do not have feelings like you do. It is the most logical solution. How much is the pay?”

“I’ll give you half of what I can get from the copper.”

“How much will that be?”

“Don’t know,” said the man. “Whatever the smithy pays.”

“I need a guarantee that I’ll have enough credits after this job to get a repair. If you do not know how much I will be paid, then we have no deal.”

“The way I see it, Gunslinger, is you don’t got much choice. I don’t see anyone else ‘round here offering you a job. I’m your only bet. So, what do ya say?”

My circuits worked. I did not know if I would be able to pay for the upgrades after this job, but I did know I wouldn’t be able to pay if I didn’t get any credits. The miner was right. It was my only choice.

“Alright,” I said. “I will do what you ask.”

***

The mine was 7.3 miles away from the colony inside one of the smaller mountains that surrounded the valley. The miner drove me there in his hovercar. The surrounding area was not any different from the area around the colony. Brown dirt and rocks covered the ground. There were no signs of vegetation anywhere. The mouth of the cave was dark, but it was open.

I turned to the miner. “It does not appear caved in to me.”

“That’s because the ceiling collapsed deeper in,” said the miner. “It’s a little ways in. The crate is either under the rubble or just behind it. Shouldn’t be a problem for a Gunslinger like you.”

“The task will be accomplished.”

The miner nodded. “I’m counting on it.”

I stepped inside the cavern. There weren’t any lights, but that was no problem for me. I activated my night vision. The image of the mine turned to green and black. I could see the walls of rock on either side of me and, deeper in the cave, just as the miner said, a pile of rubble stacked all the way to the ceiling. It was entirely impassable. I began to calculate the best solution for getting through the pile when my audio receptors picked up a sound behind me.

“Say goodbye, Gunslinger scum!”

I turned to find the miner holding a laser pistol. He fired. The red beam exploded against the ceiling, and it began to collapse. I dived forward, deeper into the cave, but it was too late. My legs got caught under the rocks. I put my hands over my head in accordance to my programmed disaster protocol. In a worst-case-scenario, I was required to shield my most vital components. The rocks bounced off the backs of my hands.

The rocks stopped falling. The cavern was silent. I analyzed the damage. It was minimal in most places, but near extreme in my legs. I needed to get out from under the rocks before the pressure became too much.

I clawed at the ground and tried to pull myself out. My motors groaned. But despite my strength, I could not get out. I pushed my poncho out of the way and pulled out my own laser pistol. I aimed at the rocks and pulled the trigger. The rocks exploded. Some pebbles bounced off my face, but my armor protected me from any damage. The pile settled. The rocks were loose. I tried to pull myself out again.

Careful not to move too suddenly and cause the rock pile to fall, I dragged my legs from under the rubble. I sat against the rock wall and took a moment to run a diagnostics check. I was operating at 43 percent capacity, and I was losing power. I needed to get out of the cave within the next hour and a half, or I would shut down and remain lost in the cave for the foreseeable future.

I slowly stood. My legs wobbled under me, but my programming adjusted and kept me upright. I stepped over to the second pile of rocks between me and the entrance and tested its stability by throwing a punch at it. My knuckles dented. The rocks didn’t move. By my calculations, the odds of escaping were 896 to 1. I had survived under worse odds, but those were combat situations, not mere survival operating at 43 percent capacity. The thought reminded me to check my operating capacity. 39 percent. Time was running out.

There was no time to check for the crate of copper, and even if there was, there was an 82 percent chance the miner lied. He wanted me to enter the cavern. It was a trap, but I could find no logical reason for him to act in such a way. It must have been emotional.

I grabbed a rock from the pile and threw it behind me. It was the only chance I had to escape, even if digging was not one of my primary functions. I threw rock after rock. The pile dwindled until it was finally clear enough for me to squeeze through. I climbed over the rocks. My back was pressed against the ceiling. My motors strained as I pulled. I was down to 28 percent capacity. The effort of digging and climbing through the small gap drained a large portion of my power.

I reached the end of the pile and tumbled to the ground. I pushed myself back up and stepped through the entrance to the mine.

The miner was nowhere to be seen. Neither was his hovercar. I knew I didn’t have enough power to reach the colony. After all, it was 7.3 miles away. But I had to try. I began my trek across the desert. The servos in my legs struggled with every step. But I continued. After about an hour of walking, I was down to 16 percent capacity. Fortunately, walking did not require as much power as the other tasks I previously had to perform. But it was still a long way.

I had reached mile 5.8 by the time capacity reached 0.2, which was exactly where I calculated I would reach before I failed. I fell to the ground. I could move, but then I would drain the rest of my power. I calculated my best option was to sit and wait.

The sound of a hovercar reached my audio receptors. I didn’t move. The hovercar approached, and someone rushed toward me.

“Oh, no,” said Job Tracer. “Hank! Are you alright?”

“If you are referring to my wellbeing, then you should know that I am only at 0.2 percent capacity. If I move, I will lose power and shut down.”

“That’s alright, buddy. Jake told us about the cave in at the mine. I knew as soon as I heard it I had to come help you. You’re one of a kind, after all.”

“I am not. There are thousands like me. Who is this Jake?”

Job laughed. “You mean, you took a job and didn’t know who you were working for? Jake’s the miner of the town. He digs metals and sells them to the smithy, who makes tools for us. With all the fancy equipment he has, I’m not sure why he needed you to get into the collapsed cave.”

I elected not to tell him of Jake’s true intention. Chances were high that Job would act emotionally and try to challenge Jake. But that was my job.

“Why did you help me?” I asked. “It was not logical.”

Job laughed again. “I don’t need logic. You’re special, even if you don’t think so. You’ve saved a lot of lives. I think it’s time we returned the favor.”

“That is not necessary.”

“I think it is.”

Job lifted me onto his hovercar and drove back toward the colony. We entered the town, and Job brought me into his shop. He laid me on his desk as I lost power. My photoreceptors darkened, and I shut down.

***

A few hours later, I woke up at 100 percent capacity, which meant I had been repaired while I was not active. I sat up on the desk and turned to Job, who sat in a chair to my right reading a magazine. Job noticed me and his fight-or-flight response activated. He cried out and flailed his arms as he fell out of his chair and onto the ground.

“It is not necessary to be fearful of me,” I said.

Job laughed as he stood from the ground. “Boy, that was creepy! Well, I repaired you.”

“I have noticed. Why did you do so? I do not have the credits to pay you.”

“After what you’ve been through, that’s alright.”

“I do have 164 credits I could transfer you.”

Job shrugged. “Well, if you insist, I can hardly say no.”

The credits transferred into his account. A beep confirmed a secure transaction.

Job smiled. “Much obliged, Hank.”

I stood from the desk. “Where is Jake?”

“He’s in the saloon right now,” said Job. “You getting the rest of your credits?”

“No. I need to speak with him.”

I turned and walked out of the shop.

***

The saloon was much busier that evening than it had been earlier that day. There were many more people. There was much laughing and loud voices inside. The instant I stepped through the door, the noises ceased. All eyes were turned on me as I stepped forward. I scanned the crowd until I found Jake staring at me from across the room with wide eyes and a fearful expression.

I marched toward him. “Why did you try to bury me under the rubble?”

Jake laughed, but my analysis told me it was not a natural reaction. It was forced. “What are you talkin’ about? The cave collapsed. I thought you were dead!”

“I am a robot. I do not die. Besides, I watched you shoot the ceiling with your laser pistol.”

Jake backed away. “What? I didn’t do that.”

“Why did you try to bury me?”

“I didn’t.”

“Answer invalid. Why did you try to bury me?”

“I swear, I didn’t!”

I stepped up close to him. The difference between our height must have made me appear imposing to him. “Answer invalid.” I pulled out my laser pistol. “Why did you try to bury me?”

Jake growled. “Because you killed my wife!”

Silence filled the room for a moment. There were gasps and whispers from the other patrons behind me.

“You remember? On the Reetra colony?” asked Jake. “You were there for some no-good smuggler, and my wife got caught in the crossfire! I talked to you about it, but all you said was that it was necessary for the job. Then you… you just walked away like it didn’t matter. Like she didn’t matter! Now, I’m going to show you how much she mattered to me! I’m gonna kill you!”

He reached for his laser pistol, but his organic arm was much less efficient than my inorganic one. I pulled my pistol out faster and fired. One shot was sufficient. A hole burned through Jake’s chest. He fell to his knees before collapsing to the ground.

I holstered my pistol. “I do not die.”

I turned and marched out of the saloon. I didn’t understand what Jake was talking about. I never had a job on Reetra. He must have been referring to another Gunslinger and decided to take his revenge out on me rather than searching for that particular bot. Organic beings were strange.

I marched out of the colony and to my starship. I decided the most logical thing to do next was to get rid of the bounty on my head. I entered my starship, flew into the air, and pushed the throttle forward, knowing that justice had been served.

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Everyone said I couldn’t do it. They said it was too hard and I should stay on the ground. They wanted me to work in the fields as they did. They wanted me to toil for someone else’s spoils.

I declined. I wanted to live my life. I wanted to climb to the peak of the mountain.

There were days I went without eating. There were days I went without sleep.

Yet I persisted, pushing myself beyond my limits. I worked day after day. Sometimes I made lots of progress. Other times I made none. I met many other climbers along the way. Many had given up and climbed down to join the others in the fields, saying they were right all along. Others had stopped climbing and made their home on the side of the mountain, happy with where they were.

I wasn’t happy yet. I needed to reach the peak.

I stood atop the mountain with tears and a shout of joy. I looked down at the fields below, and they looked up at me. They couldn’t see my progress. They couldn’t see where I was going. Many of them thought I had perished or given up. But I didn’t.

Now I had reached the top. Now they see me.

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Ocius Raelian, Jak Raelian’s wife, hated Sevdis. Well, many people hated Sevdis, but she tried to kill him! She was overreacting. Sevdis took credit for killing the Polemonian chief and ending the five-year war that killed millions, even though Jak was the real hero, sure. But that didn’t mean Sevdis deserved to die.

Did he?

Sevdis frowned as he continued to stare vacantly at the ceiling. What he did was pretty bad. Sevdis didn’t deserve the money he got from being heralded as a hero, and he certainly didn’t deserve the praise everyone gave him. So, what did he deserve?

He should have died. Jak was a hero. Sevdis should have died in his place. But that wasn’t a new thought. Sevdis knew that for a while. But he had been thinking about that more since Tromita kidnapped him. Sevdis was a coward. That stupid laser blast should have hit him while he was running. Or maybe the Polemonian Chief should have killed him before Jak’s weapon found its mark. Whatever happened, Jak didn’t deserve to die. As much as Sevdis hated the thought, he should not have survived that day.

Sevdis was horrible.

This was going to be yet another sleepless night. It would be like those other nights when he lay in bed, tossing and turning in his luxury private yacht he purchased using the money made by his book that told a lie. It told the galaxy that he was a hero. He told everyone he was worthy of recognition, worthy of the praise and love he received. It told everyone he was a good person.

He had lied to everyone. Even himself. How could he make up for his mistakes? How could he pay the price of his failure?

The answer was plain and simple: he had to become what he said he was.

The lies that he told everyone had to become true. Sevdis could have escaped. He had tried to escape. There was that time at the marketplace on the planet Alberna when he got separated from the other two. He had found a public communication console. He was about to call the Xouasian authorities. They would have been there in an instant. But something held him back.

He knew what Tromita was forcing him to do was right. He knew he had to stop the Polemonians from returning. It was his duty. He was honor-bound. He had to defeat their new Chief, and he would probably die in battle doing it.

He didn’t like that idea, but it was the consequences of his actions. It was necessary. He had to become the legend he told everyone he was, no matter the cost.

At last, Sevdis drifted to sleep as he hoped and dreamed of Jak Raelian’s legacy being restored.

(Hey, everyone! Thanks for reading this short story. This story is inspired by my book “Liar’s Legacy,” which is available on Kindle Vella. If you liked this, feel free to check it out. I just wanted to give you guys a quick update on the current projects I’m working on. My work on my next book is temporarily stalled, but progress will resume as soon as possible. In the meantime, I will focus on a special project for you guys, so stay tuned for that announcement. Thanks for reading! Have a fantastic day.)

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            Wyatt tried to remember his date. Nothing came to him. Then he remembered. It never occurred. Why?

            His car had spun out of control. He slammed into a streetlight, and another car came careening into the driver’s side!

            Wyatt sat up with a start. Where was he now? Did glass from the shattered windshield penetrate his eyes and blind him? He felt around. Then he realized that he couldn’t feel, and he couldn’t hear his own breath, his own heartbeat. He wasn’t breathing. He laid a hand on his chest only to find that his heart wasn’t beating either. What was going on? He felt the slow build of panic inside him.

            A light appeared in the distance. So, Wyatt could see after all. The yellow light was small and faint. As time passed, it grew and seemed to become brighter and brighter. Wyatt covered his eyes with his hand, only to find that he didn’t have a hand. He looked down, and he didn’t even have a body! Wyatt tried to gasp, but he still couldn’t breathe. He looked back up to see that the yellow light was very near now.

            Upon closer inspection, Wyatt saw that the yellow light was a bright, flame-lit lamp held by a man with slick, black hair and a neatly pressed black suit and tie. The tie had a pattern on it that, after his eyes adjusted to the light, Wyatt thought was made up of skulls, but he could not tell for sure.

            The strange man looked at a tiny little notebook which he held in his left hand, the opposite hand which held the lamp.

            “Wyatt Hansley, is it?” asked the man. “I’ve been looking for you. It’s been another busy night, I’m afraid. It’s a shame, really. But I’ve gotten used to it by now. Although, I’m not sure if that is a good thing.”

            The man spoke with a thick English accent. Wyatt hadn’t heard too many accents like that in Oregon and found it most interesting.

            “Who are you?” asked Wyatt. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

            The man smiled, but the smile seemed somehow sad and sympathetic. “I believe that I can answer all three of those questions with one simple answer. I am Mr. Death.”

            Wyatt gaped at the man. “You’re who?”

            “I just said, Mr. Death.”

            Wyatt took a second to process this. “So, that car crash…?”

            “It was fatal, yes.”

            Wyatt thought for a moment more. Millions of questions raced through his head. Most likely, he had time to ask all of them. “So, what I believe about the universe—my Catholic religion, I mean—it’s false?”

            “Bits and pieces are accurate,” said Death, “but reality is far more complicated than any human could comprehend.”

            “Any human? You say that like you aren’t human.”

            “Correct.”

            “So, what are you?”

            “There are no words in any human language where you could even remotely understand what I am.”

            Wyatt nodded. “Fair enough.”

            Wyatt took a moment to remember another one of the questions he had. “My date, that secretary, Haley, is she ok?”

            Death nodded. “Yes. Perfectly adequate.”

            Wyatt hesitated. “Is she, you know, worried about me?”

            “She’s been stood up before. She thinks that you simply don’t care for her. Then she will hear about your death, and she will be saddened. However, no tears for you will come from her. She barely knew you.”

            Wyatt felt as though his mind had stopped working. He forgot all about his other questions and remained there, stunned. The only thing that came to his mind and made its way to his lips was “Oh.”

            Death gave him another sad smile. “She wasn’t the one for you if that should bring any comfort. It wouldn’t have worked out.”

            “Who was the one for me?”

            “Your girlfriend when you were a sophomore in college,” said Death. “You broke up with her after a fight, but she was the one you were meant for.”

            Wyatt desperately wanted to cry, to have warm tears run down his cheeks and sob with his head in his hands. He didn’t, however, because he physically couldn’t. Physically, Wyatt didn’t exist anymore. He was merely consciousness.

            “Did I do anything of meaning in my life?” he asked.

            Death raised an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

            “Was I remembered? Was I worth anything? Did I affect the future?”

            Death smiled. “Let’s take a look.”

            Suddenly, Wyatt found himself floating hundreds of feet in the air above Portland. This was where he had moved after college, condemned to work at a small insurance company in a tiny cubicle for the rest of his life.

            Death waved his arm out in front of him, gesturing towards the entire city. “This is Portland, but not as you know it. This is Portland fifty years into your…. What’s the word? Ah, yes. Future!”

            Wyatt looked down at everyone walking in and out of buildings, down streets, on sidewalks. None of them gave a care in the world to the man in a black suit with a skull-patterned tie hovering in the sky above them.

            Wyatt looked at Death. “Why doesn’t anyone notice you?”

            “Why do you think?” asked Death. “They can’t see me. No mortal can. It is only when one becomes immortal that one can see other immortals.”

            “So, I’m immortal?”

            “Indeed. Would you like to take a closer look to see what has become of your memory?”

            “I would like that, yes.”

            “Let us go, then.”

            Wyatt looked at the scenery around him as he zipped through the air. He didn’t feel any sort of sensation at all. No breeze, no fear, no inertia, only movement. They stopped at a house away from the tall, ominous buildings. Death walked up to the door and opened it, allowing Wyatt and himself inside. They stepped in, and Death silently closed the door behind them. They crept through the house until they came across an old woman sleeping in her rocking chair.

            “Who is that?” asked Wyatt.

            “I believe you already know who that is. This is Scarlet, your sister.”

            “Was she sad at my passing?”

            “She cried for about a day but got over it soon enough. She always thought you were a horrible person, you know.”

            “Yes,” said Wyatt. “I know. I thought the same about her.”

            “She never really found happiness. She never married, and she hated her job until retirement. Then she was stuck here with no friends or husband, and no purpose. She was all alone and miserable until the end. Let’s continue, shall we?”

            Death led Wyatt out of the house, and they zipped through Portland once more. This time, however, they stopped at the insurance office that Wyatt had worked at, but it was merely an old, abandoned building scheduled for demolition.

            “Not even the work I did in insurance was worth anything?”

            “You were well received by customers if that helps,” said Death. “However, you are correct, and it wasn’t worth much. They closed not long after your death, and most of the people that worked there found better jobs that they enjoyed far more than insurance. On we go.”

            They zipped through the city one last time and came to a hospital. They navigated the corridors and, after waiting in an elevator for a while, navigated one more passage and reached a small ward. Inside the ward was another old woman, on her death bed, holding the hand of her loving husband.

            Death gestured towards the woman. “This is Haley on the night that I pick her up, I believe. She found another man and lived a long, happy life with him.”

            “Did she remember me?”

            “I’m afraid not. All the new memories she made with the love of her life pushed away the memories of that one shy employee at the insurance place she worked at fifty years ago.”

            Wyatt felt a wave of grief as it struck him hard and deep. He shouted at Death. “What, then, was the point of any of this? Why did you show me all these things? What was the purpose of my life?”

            Death grinned. “Oh, Wyatt. It wasn’t so bad. You’ve done many great things in your life. You just don’t know it.”

            “Like what? What have I done?”

            “Do you remember that one boy in high school who drew those incredible drawings?”

            “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do remember him.”

            “That boy was too scared to show his work to anyone. Not even his own family. His confidence was boosted immensely when you caught a glimpse of his drawing and told him how remarkable it was. He became one of the greatest artists humanity has ever known.”

            Wyatt stared at Death. “Really?”

            “Really. Do you remember, also, the young woman who dropped her papers and her Frappuccino whom you assisted at the café?”

            Wyatt nodded. “I do.”

            “That young lady had severe depression and was considering taking her own life that night. I was prepared to take her when you showed up and made her feel some sort of worth. You made her feel loved. Eventually, she sought help and became a much happier person because you went out of your way to help her.

            “So, you see, just because you didn’t become famous or rich or create something revolutionary doesn’t mean that your life was worthless. When people visit the Sistine Chapel, do they look at the pillars and beams holding up the building, or do they look at the painting? They look at the painting, of course. But that doesn’t make the pillars and beams any less important. You are one of those pillars, Wyatt Hansley. Without you, the future would look very different. I have taken many people, and so far, none of them have been unimportant. I don’t expect to ever find anyone who is worthless. Everyone is important, whether people know it or not. Everyone has a role to play in this world.”

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