I walk around my bare room, empty except from me, a clock, and a figure with a dark, ripped hooded cloak on that shrouds his face. He holds in his right hand a Sythe made from bones. Probably human.
The terrible, horrid thing seems to be looking at me in anticipation. I look at the Scythe, and notice that it is pointing at me. So this would be my end. Death from crude Scythe. Better than some other ways; say, being killed by your own son; your own nephew; your own friend.
But the Grim Reaper never does kill me. He ghosts towards me, and sayd in an old, withered, whispery voice,
"Death will come to all those that inhabit. Be warned; your upbringing will be your downfall. This power- my power- is a great responsibility. Use it well."
And then he leaves in a puff of smoke. That's the last I will ever see again.