The Angel of Death was among them, and they could ignore His presence no longer. He had come to collect the soul belonging to the youngest of the group, a lad by the name of Coriore. For though he was young in years, he had the soul of an ancient poet or philosopher. Despite the brevity of his material time on earth, he had lived with more passion and left more marks than any other boy in the room. His spirit was from that of another time, and he did not belong in the world in which he was borne. Coriore did not fear the Angel of Death, in all of His cold and darkness, for it reminded him of a deep sleep in which one creates new worlds in his or her dreams. And so, it was with a peaceful willingness that he followed the Angel of Death into the dark and cold sleep, where in which he could only hope to be able to dream.