The soft hum of fluorescent lights hovered above
like a lullaby for the dead. The morgue roamed
with steam, insulated from the noise of the living.
Outside, rain pressed gently against the high,
narrow windows. More a suggestion than a sound.
The mortician pulled on gloves with practiced
ease. A snap. barely breaking the silence. Their
breath, even and slow, fogged briefly on the
cool still of the table as they leaned forward.
The sheet was drawn back with care. Not ceremony.
Not ritual. Just care. They always started at
the face. There was nothing particularly remarkable
about it anymore. The expression had gone slack
in that universal way, as if the features themselves
had given up on holding on to identity. The mortician
tilted their head slightly, observing. Not for
flaws, not for art, but for something closer
to recognition. But the moment passed. It always
passed. A small cloth dipped in warm water and
lavender oil pressed gently to skin that no longer
resisted or responded. The mortician's hand moved
in soft circles across the forehead, the cheeks,
down the jaw. Delicate, like cleaning dust from
an old photograph, they worked quietly, reverently,
each motion a whisper. You came here in the end,
like they all do. The mortician said, their voice
barely audible, lost to the rhythm of ritual.
Whatever you were before, it's not for me to
know, is it? The body didn't answer. That was
the comfort and the cruelty of this job. The
mortician reached for the small scissors. Stray
hairs were trimmed, eyebrows gently shaved. The
eyes had long since been closed, sealed with
a touch of gel and tenderness, though the mortician
still paused before brushing a finger across
the lids. I hope someone held your hand, they
murmured. Or told you it was okay to let go.
They shifted focus to the hands, folded now,
clean, resting one over the other. There was
always something about the hands that pulled
at them. Not just the age written in the veins
or fine lines, but what they once held. Whom
they once touched. The mortician allowed a moment
here, lingering over knuckles and half -moon
nails. I wonder who will weep for you tomorrow.
Who will pretend they're fine? Who will carry
you in their silence after they've gone back
to their lives? The clothes had been laid out
earlier. Dark, elegant, impersonal. The kind
of final outfit chosen with compromise and care.
Morticians slipped each piece on like dressing
a statue. Mindful of buttons, scenes, the quiet
dignity of the task. When they were finished,
they stepped back, eyes searching again for something.
Closure. Understanding. Maybe just peace. They
didn't find it. But they never really did. You're
ready now. The mortician whispered. They placed
one last white flower at the side of the pillow,
always the same kind, not for the dead, not really,
for the space between. And then they turned away,
glancing once more at the body as they walked
to the door, leaving behind the hum of lights
and the scent of lavender and endings. The mortician
didn't leave right away. They stood at the edge
of the preparation room. one hand still resting
on the doorframe, eyes drawn back to the figure
laying on the table. There was a stillness in
the air that didn't feel quite finished. A sensation,
soft as breath, but something remained undone.
Their hand fell from the door. They stepped back
in. The fluorescent lights cast the same sterile
glow. but something about it felt more forgiving
now, less clinical, more like a stage light dimming
before curtain close. The mortician moved toward
the head of the table, adjusting the pillows
slightly. No one would notice, but they would.
They leaned in, this time not to inspect or tidy,
but just to be close. I, I always wonder. They
said, their voice softer than before. If I'm
the last one to see you as, well, you. They brushed
a bit of the lint from the shoulder of the coat.
The gesture felt maternal, or maybe priestly.
Or maybe it was just muscle memory from a job
where the hands learned more than the heart ever
dared to. You were someone. You were loved, I
hope. Or feared. Or needed. Or missed. You walked
through someone's dream once, didn't you? Silence,
answered. Like it always did. But the mortician
didn't mind. They sat on the small stool at the
foot of the table and looked at the polished
shoes. Carefully fitted onto feet that would
never take another step. The laces were tied
with quite precision. The mortician's eyes traced
them as if they were lines of a poem they hadn't
yet understood. Sometimes I think you can hear
me. They said. Not with ears, just some part
of you. The part of you that's already somewhere
else. They didn't believe in ghosts. Not really.
But they believed in echoes. The way grief held
onto the air long after people had left the room.
The way some bodies felt heavy with stories,
others light with peace. This one, this one hadn't
told them yet. They stood. One last look. Not
for imperfections, just for presence. Are they
still here? The mortician stepped close again
and reached out. Not to fix anything. Not to
work. But simply to lay their hand gently over
the cold ones folded on the chest. Maybe just
for a moment. There you are. They whispered.
Then they turned away. This time, they did leave.
This time, the door closed behind them. And the
room, now filled with flowers, lavender, and
the faint warmth of a goodbye, returned to...
Stillness. The elevator let out its tired groan
as it reached the lower level. The morticians
stepped off without hesitation, the soles of
their shoes making soft sounds against the polished
concrete. Down here, there was no ambient music.
No flowers, no windows. Only the hush cold of
air and the quiet hum of refrigeration units.
The steel doors of the cold chamber slid open
with a mechanical sigh. Rows of compartments
lined the walls. Each marked with a number, not
a name. The newest arrival waited on a gurney
at the far end, still zipped in a white vinyl
pouch. The kind of silence that surrounds the
dead wasn't just absence. It had a weight. Like
a blanket soaked in rain. The mortician approached.
Place a hand on the pouch. Not to unzip it, not
yet. Just to acknowledge the presence inside.
Not an object. A life paused mid -sentence. You're
here now. They murmured. And I'll see to you.
Unzipping the pouch was never mechanical. It
was intimate. Like opening a letter you knew
would contain pain, but you read it anyway. The
face inside was slack, pale, not yet prepared.
The mortician studied it with the soft patience
of someone reacquainting themselves with grief.
He reached for a clip. and glanced over the file.
Time of death. Cause. Pound alone. The rest was
sterile. Administrative. Not a single word about
who this person was when they laughed. Not a
single note about the way they tilted their head
when listening. Just facts. Just silence. The
mortician spoke to fill the void. Sometimes the
family sends photos. Tells us what you liked.
The way you wore your hair. Favorite tie. Sometimes
they don't send anything at all. They paused,
setting the clipboard aside. Sometimes I think
people vanish twice. First, when they die. And
again, when no one... remembers how it is that
they lived. There was a small scar on the left
cheek, nearly hidden beneath the stubble. A story,
no doubt, but one the mortician would never know.
Still, they noticed. Still, they honored it.
As they began to undress the body, hands working
with practiced gentleness, the mortician found
themselves humming. A slow, unfamiliar tune.
Not for the dead. For themselves. Something to
hold on to in the quiet. Um, make you look like
someone who mattered. They whispered, as if promising
not to let this person disappear entirely. Because,
down here, beneath the earth, where no one clapped
or cried or called out names, The work wasn't
about restoring life. It was about restoring
dignity. And the mortician was very, very good
at that. The faucet hissed to life, spilling
warm water into the basin. The mortician tested
it with a gloved hand, heat just high enough
to soften, not to scald. A bottle of unscented
soap was squeezed into the stream, clouds forming
like breath on cold glass. They worked in silence,
gathering soft cloths, combs, shears, everything
they would need to make this person whole again.
Niff only for one more viewing. Steam curled
around their face as they returned to the table.
The steam was still now slightly fogged. The
body, pale and unmoving, waited. The mortician
cupped water in their palm and let it fall over
the chest first. Then shoulders, arms, throat.
Not splashed. Poured. As if baptizing. But no
scripture was read. Just breath. And water. And
the ritual of care. This... This isn't for you.
The mortician said quietly. Not... Not exactly.
It's for the ones who still need to say goodbye.
They watched with slow practice motions. Hair
was dampened, combed back. Nails were trimmed.
The face, still a stranger's face, was tented
with the same reverence they'd given to someone
they'd loved. That was the discipline of the
work. Grief was not required to show up and do
it right. Only respect. As they reached for the
smaller container of restorative balm, Their
fingers trembled slightly. They paused. I...
I had a brother. They whispered. Unsure why they
were saying it, or to whom. He died on a Tuesday.
No one touched him after. No one claimed him.
They just... They just left him the way they
found him. They massaged the bone gently across
the skin, working it into the cheeks, the forehead,
around the mouth where life once gathered in
smiles or sighs or scorn. Each stroke quieted
something old in them, though they couldn't know
what. Ever since then, they continued, I promised.
I promised I wouldn't let anyone go out like
that. Not if I could help it. They worked the
ball down to the hands. Folded. Pale. Cold. But
still. Hands. They belonged to someone. Someone
who had waited in lines and held cups of coffee
and brushed hair from a lover's face. These hands.
had lived. And now they lay still. I don't know
what you lost, the mortician said, but I know
what you'll leave behind. They looked up, past
the body, past the room, to nothing in particular.
It's never nothing. It's never nothing. No matter
what anyone says. Silence again. Heavy and unbroken.
They reached for the clothing laid out on a nearby
table. Pressed earlier, neat as a pressed leaf
in an old book. Simple. Appropriate. There was
a kind of grace in simplicity. As the mortician
began to dress the body. The door behind them
creaked gently. Not from someone entering. But
from the building settling. Or... Or maybe it
was something else. The air sometimes moved like
that around the dead. Like someone had taken
a breath and forgotten to exhale. The mortician
didn't look back. They fastened buttons, adjusted
cuffs, smoothed the fabric. No wasted emotion.
Then, finally, they sat back. The transformation
was complete. Not resurrection. Not magic. But
recognition. A person. Ready to be mourned. A
story dressed for its final telling. The funeral
began without music. There were no strings, no
organ, no carefully cued playlists. Just the
hush of shuffling shoes. and the hollow acoustics
of a chapel too large for the handful who'd come.
The mortician stood in the back, behind the last
row of pews, hands folded in front, unnoticed,
as always. And that was how they preferred it.
The casket sat open at the front, framed by muted
flowers and flickering candles. None scented.
Scent was memory. And memory was dangerous in
places like this. It could crack someone open
without warning. One by one, people approached.
A man in a dark suit with two short sleeves.
A woman whose hand never left her necklace. A
boy no older than sixteen kept his eyes on the
floor, like the ground might split if he looked
up. The mortician watched the mourners watch
the body. Every tilt of a head, every quiver
of a jawline was familiar. Grief played the same
notes in a hundred different songs. The man reached
out, touched the cold fingers. whispered something
only the dead could hear. The woman adjusted
a lapel that didn't need adjusting. The boy just
stood there, silent, until the woman gently guided
him away. The mortician closed their eyes. They
had done well. The body looked peaceful, dignified.
Not someone who had simply fallen asleep in their
best clothes. They always strived for that. Not
beauty. Not perfection. Peace. A hand brushed
the mortician's arm. Startled, they turned. And
there she was. Middle -aged, coat damp from the
rain. Eyes rimmed with red. But try now. She
gave a small, apologetic smile, as she hadn't
mean to interrupt someone else's grief. Are you
the one who... She asked softly, gesturing toward
the front. The mortician nodded once. She looked
at the casket again. They... they looked like
themselves. Better than I remember, honestly.
The mortician said nothing. Just waited. The
woman hesitated. Her voice dropped. I was angry
with them when they left. We hadn't spoken in
years. Thought I'd be fine with that, but...
But now... She trailed off. The silence didn't
need filling. After a long moment, she asked,
Do you talk to them when you do your work? The
mortician considered this, then nodded again.
Do they ever... She caught herself, embarrassed.
Never mind. They don't answer. Mortician said,
voice quiet. The woman gave a brittle laugh.
No, no, no. I suppose they wouldn't. She looked
again at the casket, then back. But, thank you.
We're treating them like they mattered. And just
like that, she was gone. Back to the pews. Back
to the living. The mortician remained where they
were. Listening as the officiant stepped forward
and cleared his throat. The service began. But
the mortician wasn't listening. Not to the words.
They were listening for something else. Sometimes.
It came in the sight of the candles. Sometimes
in the way light filtered through stained glass
onto the polished wood. And sometimes in the
voice of someone like that woman. Someone living,
who had come hoping to say something they never
got to. That, the mortician thought, was who
their work was really for. Not the dead. but
the ones who still carry them. The mortician
remained at the back, long after the service
ended. The chapel emptied in careful, uneven
waves. Quiet hugs, murmured regrets, footsteps
soft as apologies. The boy was the last to leave,
hesitating near the casket, his hand gripping
the edge like it might anchor him. He looked
as though he wanted to say something. Maybe,
Scream it! But instead, he just nodded once.
A gesture so small, it barely disturbed the air.
Then he was gone too. The silence returned. The
kind the mortician knew intimately. They walked
slowly toward the front. The candles burned lower
now. Their scentless flames danced only for the
absent. As they looked down at the face they
had worked on with such care, there was something
different about it now. Not a change of the features,
they remained composed, serene. But the presence
behind them had dimmed, as if the last fragments
of spirit had finally heard what they needed
to. and slipped out the back door. Good, the
mortician said, almost under their breath. They
took a seat in the front pew. It was rare they
allowed themselves this. Sitting where the mourners
had sat, it felt too much like crossing a boundary.
But something about the woman's voice, the way
it cracked when she said thank you. had stayed
with them. They sat there, watching the flicker
of the candles, hands resting quietly in their
lap. For a moment, they let themselves feel the
weight of everything they'd held that week. Four
viewings. Two cremations. One suicide. One child.
One man who died alone, whose body was found
only because a neighbor's dog wouldn't stop barking.
All of them had passed through their hands. And
all of them had left something behind. The mortician
leaned forward, elbows on knees, face in hands,
just for a moment. Not to cry. Not exactly. Just
to feel. Like pressing fingers into a bruise
to make sure it's real. They didn't believe in
ghosts. But in that moment, they imagined each
of them sitting in the pews behind him. Quiet
and composed. Not haunting. Just present. Like
a congregation of stories that only the dead
could tell. I remember you. The mortician whispered
to the room. They stood slowly, joints stiff
from stillness. It was time to close the casket.
One final gesture. Not a sealing of death, but
a promise that nothing more would be taken. Now
what remained would be honored. The lid lowered
with a hush of hinges and a soft click of closure.
The morticians stood beside it for a moment longer,
hand resting on the polished wood. They thought
of the woman, the boy, the way the living carried
their grief like an invisible heirloom. passed
from generation to generation, never fully unpacked.
Then they whispered again, the words not for
the dead, but for themselves. You... You mattered.
The mortician was eating soup from a chipped
white bowl when the phone rang. It was late,
past the hour for condolences, earlier than the
hour for ghosts. The kind of hour where the world
went quiet enough to hear things you'd rather
forget. Outside, the wind scratched softly against
the window panes. And somewhere, in the distance,
a train moaned as it cut through the darkness.
They didn't flinch, just set the spoon down and
reached for the receiver. Evening, they said.
Their voice was always steady, even when their
hands weren't. A dispatcher's voice crackled
through, tired and flat. Pick up on Ridge Hollow
Road? Sheriff's on scene. No next of kin. The
mortician wrote it down with a pencil, already
worn to its knob. Estimated time of death? They
asked. Maybe six hours. He was found by a neighbor.
No signs of trauma. Probably natural. The line
went quiet for a moment. Then... You okay to
take this one alone? I... I always do. The mortician
cried. They dressed in layers, the night biting
through fabric as if trying to get under their
skin. The hearse's engine stuttered once. then
settled into a low, groaning hum. The road out
of town was empty, save for the occasional flicker
of headlights from passing trucks. No one looked
directly at the hearse. People never did. Ridge
Hollow was twenty minutes out. A scatter of houses
too stubborn to admit they were lonely when they
pulled up. The sheriff's cruiser was already
parked, headlights casting long skeletal shadows
through the trees. The morticians stepped out,
boots crunching gravel, and the cold rushed into
their lungs like old regret. The sheriff met
them halfway down the drive. He didn't offer
a handshake, just a nod. Mike Badrum. Quiet,
fella. Leave it alone. They walked in silence,
past unwashed dishes and dust -heavy curtains.
The house smelled of something faint and sweet,
like rotting apples or forgotten perfume. The
body lay on the bed, covers pulled up as if he'd
simply gone to sleep and missed the memo about
not waking up. The mortician stood there for
a long moment, staring at the shape beneath the
quilt. He wasn't young, that much was clear.
The room was filled with books, some left open
mid -sentence, as though he just stepped away
to think. A small glass of water sat on the nightstand.
No photo frames, no letters. Just the remnants
of a life that had grown quiet long before the
heart stopped. The sheriff scratched the back
of his neck. He wrote poetry, I think. Found
some notebooks in the drawer. Kinda private,
though. You want them? The mortician looked down
at the body. I'll take them, he said softly.
It's... All that's left. And with that, they
began the work. The body was moved carefully,
respectfully, as though it might still bruise.
Outside, the wind howled a little louder, like
the trees were complaining. The sheriff stayed
quiet, watching from the porch as the mortician
loaded the stretcher into the back of the hearse.
Before the doors closed, the mortician paused.
Something in the air felt unfinished. They turned
back to the house, walking inside once more,
and this time stood in the center of the bedroom.
Just stood, listening. It was quiet. But not
empty. They reached into the drawer, retrieved
the notebooks, and tucked them into their coat.
You... you don't have to be forgotten. They whispered,
to no one and to everyone. Then they shut the
lights off, one by one, and drove the man back
into town. The mortician drove slowly back toward
town, headlights carving a pale path through
the thickening fog. The notebooks rested on the
passenger seat, their worn leather bindings soft
from years of handling. Every so often, the mortician's
hand brushed against them, as if feeling the
pulse of someone long gone. Back at the mortuary,
the building felt colder than usual. The hum
of the refrigeration units echoed like distant
thunder. The mortician set the notebooks carefully
on the steel table and pulled the cover off the
stretcher. They worked methodically, removing
the quilt and folding it with care. The man's
face was pale, but peaceful, shadowed in the
dim light. The mortician's fingers lingered on
the jawline. tracing the line of a life now past.
They dressed him simply. No frills, no attempts
to mask the quiet dignity the man carried in
death. When the body was ready, the mortician
returned to the notebooks. Opening the first
one, they were met with jagged handwriting. Ink
faded, but still legible. Poems that spoke of
loneliness. Of nights spent chasing stars just
beyond reach. Of dreams that slipped away like
smoke. A line caught their eye. In the silence
between heartbeats, I listen for a voice I once
knew. The mortician read on. each poem a thread
leaving a picture of a man who had lived unseen,
but who had felt everything deeply. Hours passed
unnoticed. The cold room grew colder. The notebook
pages turned, revealing fragments of hope and
despair, of love lost and found only in dreams.
The mortician paused on one final poem, folded
into the back, like a secret. If I am to be forgotten,
let it be with kindness. Let the wind carry my
name softly, like a whisper no one hears, but
once. They closed the notebook gently. Outside,
dawn was bleeding into the sky, soft pinks and
greys mixing in quiet groins. The morticians
stood alone with the poet's story, feeling the
weight of a name they would never speak aloud,
but would carry nonetheless. The first light
of dawn filtered through the mortuary's narrow
windows, casting long shadows across the tiled
floor. The morticians sat alone at a cluttered
desk, a faint scent of coffee lingering in the
air, untouched. The notebooks lay open before
them, words spilling like whispered confessions
into the quiet room. Outside, the world was waking.
Birds stirring, distant engines roaring to life.
But inside, time felt suspended, stretched thin
like the fragile pages they'd turned. The mortician's
fingers traced the ink, pausing at lines that
spoke of regret, longing, and hope folded tightly
within solitude. Names were never spoken here.
Names belonged to the living, to stories yet
unfinished. But in these poems, a soul breathed,
aching to be remembered. A gentle knock broke
the stillness. The mortician looked up, startled.
The door creaked open. revealing a figure silhouetted
against the growing light. A woman, her eyes
shadowed with fatigue and something like recognition.
I'm so sorry to bother you so early, she said,
voice soft but steady. I heard he might have
the notebooks. The mortician regarded her quietly,
noting the tremor in her hands. the weight of
unspoken memories. They gestured to the table
without a word. She stepped forward, eyes following
on the open pages, lips moving as if reading
a silent prayer. Hey, who's my uncle? She said
finally, voice catching. We lost touch years
ago. I never thought I'd find anything like this.
The mortician nodded, the room thick with a fragile
thread of connection between the living and the
dead, the forgotten and the remembered. Sometimes,
the mortician said, voice low, the stories left
behind are the only way we hold on. The woman
looked up, meeting their gaze. Thank you. And,
for the first time in a long while, the mortician
felt the quiet stir of something like hope. The
woman hesitated, then took a seat at the edge
of the desk. Her fingers brushed lightly over
the worn pages, as though afraid to disturb the
fragile truth they held. The morning light caught
the glint of tears threatening to spill. They
never told me much about him, she said quietly.
Just that he was different. Quiet. Kind of lost,
I guess. We stopped talking after the funeral
for my father. The mortician listened, knowing
better than to rush or fill the silence. He wrote
these poems? She asked. voice trembling slightly.
Most of them, the mortician replied. They tell
what no one said aloud. She nodded slowly, eyes
fixed on the words. I think you wanted someone
to know, to understand. The mortician stood and
walked through the small window. gazing out at
the waking town. Sometimes it's the living who
need reminding. Love doesn't just disappear just
because someone's gone. The woman looked up,
searching her face. Have you ever lost someone
like that? She asked. The mortician's eyes darkened
for a moment. The weight. of unspoken grief settling
in. Many, they said, and many more who lost themselves
long, long before. The woman smiled faintly,
wiping a tear from her cheek. I'd like to take
these, she said, to keep them safe, to share
them. The mortician nodded. Sometimes, that's
the best way to make sure a story doesn't end.
They watched her leave. The notebooks tucked
close to her heart. Alone once more. The mortician
returned to the desk. The room seemed a little
less cold, the dog a little less distant. And
somewhere, between the living and the dead, a
story bound its breath.