Name: The Travelers
I don’t remember the first time I died, but Sophie does. She says I was a scared, old man, as I always am, lying in a pile of old, threadbare blankets in a thatched-roof cottage in Central England. Third century B.C., if memory serves.
I was terrified, she said, but she held my hand and told me it’d get easier after a handful of lifetimes. One day, it’d be as simple as taking a long, slow breath, then exhaling completely.
She was right, now that I think about it. That’s usually how dying feels, if you’re lucky.