The year is 1760 in Southwell, a small town about a days journey from Nottinham. Twins were born this day; both perilously weak, small and sick. The firstborn passed away moments after leaving the womb.
The second child survived on God's grace alone, and the mother; such a sweet woman, gave thanks to God and named him Timothy, and mourned for her departed first-born son. 

Timothy, as an infant, was very small, and being born so early, was also very prone to sickness. Oh, the hours his mother and father spent fussing over him. He was much loved, and was cared for almost constantly.

They were not wealty, the parents; though they were far from poor. The father was a smart man; and was concious about his money. He had saved for a child for many years, which was wise.

Five days after Timothy was born, he opened his eyes. His parents were enthralled, for his eyes were not blue, like his father, nor brown, like his mother; but they were a very solid marbled green.

I kept a dilligent watch on the child, Timothy all throughout his childhood. When he would fall ill I would come, and see his parents labor to make him well, and when his health was again full, I would depart.

Southwell became more of a home to me than any other city; even perhaps my own; and I came to think of my self as a sort of Godfather of the child, Timothy. Even though I could never stay long; and I was often gone for weeks at a time, I soon found that I loved the child, Timothy. He was the son I could never have.

Alas, my name is Death. I have walked the earth for nearly five centuries, calling for those whos times have come.

I do not remember my true name, nor my parents names, or even the name of my home. The only name I remember now is that of my heir, the child, Timothy.

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