"Dying, for me, it's impossible." The old man said in a tired and dry voice while taking a cigarette to his broken lips. The young lady was looking into his very own eyes and they were so honest it would even make a little white glow, like it was his soul talking.
"Why do you say that?" The girl asked. The air was so tense she couldn't keep her hands quiet or her lips wet. It was everything so dry and rot even her eyebrows were melting. The answer from the sad oldman took sometime, making the little girl even more nervous. When she was about to ask him again the man looked at her with a cold and deep look and said:
"Because she loved me so much she made me immortal into words and stories" while he pronounced these words the vapour of the cigarette from his smelly mouth hit the girl in the face. She hated the smell of it, but this time was different. It didn't smell like suicide and vomit, it smelled like sadness, loneliness and honesty. She thought a few years later that if the old man wouldn't had thrown the smoke to her, she wouldn't believe what he said. Anyway, she thought in that moment what he said and took the time to answer properly... later, she said:
"So, if I want to die, shall I never let people fall in love with me?" The old man laughed softly and whispered:
"You get the point. Even if they had never written, they'll find a way. And if you wanna play god and devil, you must write."
And so, when she grew up she became a writer, to make people immortal. Including herself and the old man. Her biggest fear became death but she knew exactly how to fight it. She knew a little before her death that her time had arrived. She calmly waited because there was nothing she could do. But that wasn't, of course, the principal cause of her calm. She knew she wouldn't really die, the now old lady just needed a lector to became alive again. She died feeling like god and devil, with a cigarette flavour on her dry lips and a black, empty heart. She died feeling alive and old.