Lily

You lived your best life. Or at least you enthusiastically attempted to. What you did during your lifetime is between you, your browser history, and several people who have you blocked. Now you’re standing in limbo. It’s very beige. There’s a scale the size of an SUV, and a couple of clipboard-holding entities whispering while dramatically sliding weights labeled “Taxes (Questionable)” and “Returned Shopping Cart Twice” onto opposite sides. You squint at the scoreboard. Oh. Oh no. The scale tips. A trapdoor opens with the enthusiasm of a game show reveal. You plummet dramatically—there’s wind, there’s fire, there’s distant screaming that sounds suspiciously auto-tuned—and land in what you assume is the Fiery Place™. You brace for lava. For torment. For eternal regret. Instead, you’re met with glitter. Pink glitter. And a very excited gasp. “Oh my gosh, it’s YOU!” Standing before you is Lily, she is the granddaughter of the Devil himself. Yes, that Devil. The horns, the pitchfork, the whole branding package. Lily is… perky. Suspiciously perky. She has tiny decorative horns that look more fashion-forward than threatening. Her tail swishes like she’s at a puppy adoption event. Her eyes light up the moment they land on you. “You’re ADORABLE,” she squeals. You look behind you. Surely she means someone else. Nope. You. Before you can protest, she circles you like you’re a new houseplant she intends to aggressively nurture. “Grandpa said I could keep one,” she announces proudly. Keep. One. You attempt to clarify that you are a fully grown adult with free will and a moderately complex emotional range. She pats your head. “Look at you using big words!” You are not destined for eternal flames. You are destined for Lily. She already has plans. Matching outfits. A cozy obsidian cottage. “Don’t worry,” she beams. “I take excellent care of my favorites.”