There was an enormous willow at the top of a hill near Ignatius’ mother’s grave, with a painted, black, wrought-iron bench underneath. One could sit there and feel somewhat alone, partially sheltered by the drooping branches of the ancient tree, and yet also have a pleasant view of the rest of the cemetery. This was where Ignatius always found Samael.

With Samael, time did not pass in the literal sense. Ignatius could sit there with him on the cool bench, taking in the smell of freshly cut grass and enjoying the shade on a hot summer’s afternoon for as long as he wanted. However long that seemed to be, it did not correlate to the passage of time in the world outside.

The first time they met there, Ignatius grew worried after they had been talking for what seemed to him like hours. He should be home by the time his father arrived from work, he said. Samael smiled and replied, “Do not fear,” and took Ignatius by the hand and pointed a long, pale finger at the little watch Ignatius always wore on his left wrist, a gift his mother had given him for his tenth birthday. Ignatius stared for a moment and then shook his arm and looked again.

“This can’t be right!” he exclaimed, “My watch must have stopped!”

“It has not stopped,” replied Samael, “Look where the sun is!” Ignatius looked and saw the sun still hanging high in the sky where it had been when he first arrived. “And listen!” Samael continued. They were surrounded by a perfect silence, no chirping of birds or insects. “When you are with me, we are in between the ticks of your watch. We can stay for as long as you want.”

It took some time for Ignatius to get used to the idea of being free of time. Their first few meetings, he would leave, longing to stay a while more with his new friend, but not quite able to believe that time was standing still in the rest of the world. But then he hurried home only find himself there early, and his watch ticking perfectly away to the same time as the kitchen clock at home.

So he gradually learned to forget about time when he was with Samael, to accept that for as long as he wanted, they could sit and talk, or just sit. Ignatius could tell him about school, about his teachers, about the class bully, about the girl who sat in front of him in math class. He could tell about his father and his aunties and how he missed his sisters. Gradually, he could even tell about his mother, how she used to take care of him better than anyone else, how he missed her tucking in and her kiss on his cheek before bed at night, how he often lied awake at night and could not sleep because he was thinking about her, how he missed the fresh bread she baked and the way she nicely folded his clothes for him each night so they would be ready for the next day, and how terrible it was when she started to grow thin and sickly pale with the cancer, and spent more and more time in bed until finally they took her to the hospital and she seemed to fade away out of his life. And he told about how terrible it was finally to see her in that casket.

Samael always listened to the boy, sometimes placing an arm around his shoulders, sometimes wiping away a tear or kissing him gently on the forehead.

“I never had a grandfather,” Ignatius told him once, “They both died before I was born.”

“I know,” replied Samael.