This is not the bright, candlelit room where lives are written.

That library belongs to a different Death. This one was stocked by the Death who meets you twice: once to ask if you're ready to begin, and once to ask how it went.

Its shelves are stocked with memories - your memories, the ones you wouldn't write in even the fullest autobiography. All the little failures and triumphs, the loves and losses; all bound up in a cover as unique and special as you were.

And when she has borne you aloft in her soft-beating wings; when your family and friends have mourned you and moved on; when all memory of your life has passed from the Earth; still from time to time she will sit, and take out your book, and think of you as she reads.