The man in the bed is weathered and gray. He has seen too much and gone too far. He sees only memories now, a fond past of wife and children, who long ago faded away. The bed is cold the night is dark; and he is alone.
"Time to die, Harry."
He draws the covers closer, the voice is familiar. A shadow of a man stands at the end of his bed. A face very different from the last time he saw it, exhausted and worn, but the eyes are much kinder then before.
"You're dead, Tom"
The ghost (was it a ghost; he looked so solid?) smiled.
"Oh yes, very much so. But there is, as they say, no rest for the wicked."
Harry sat up then. Shrugging off the years like an old coat; he straightened up, his old bones ached just a little less. He found he could no longer be afraid of the man before him; things like fear seemed so long ago, distant and foolish.
Standing up was a little harder, his legs arthritic and stiff (why does everything hurt when you're old?) he looked this familiar stranger in the eyes.
"Well what happens now?"
"I don't know. That's your journey; I never actually got to die."
"You've been dead for the last seventy years. I used to visit your grave. I saw your body. You died."
"Perhaps I did. I can't remember; I've been to so many death beds since then."
"I was going to ask, why you, of all people, take me home."
"I think it was my punishment; but I don't quite recall. Now I ferry the dead. All of them, and there has been so many."
For the first time, Harry looked at this man with something approaching pity. He found he could not bring himself to hate this man before him, defeated as he was. He cast a lingering glance around the room that was home for so many years. He noticed how small it was, how bare.
"I think this is where we part ways. Goodbye, Tom"
"Goodbye, Harry"
The man stood alone in the cold and the dark. Turning to leave, he picked up a cloak from the chair beside the bed. It flowed like water in his hands. He left, to greet three brothers.