13 Mink Street

Aunt Mary’s workshop in the basement was thick with silence. A cigarette smoldered between her fingers. Uncle Mason stood in the doorway, his hand locked onto the nape of the neck of his son Lent. The boy’s face was sullied with tears, his apologies spilling out in stammered loops. Uncle Mason’s face, so often gentle, looked dark and grave at this moment. Finally, as if unable to stand the noise any longer, Aunt Mary ordered, “Go wash up. Don’t disturb this little girl’s rest.”

Lent had skipped school to join the march organized by Delyss, the environmentalist girl from Veyn. The gathered students had rushed towards the local power plant, and then triggered a confrontation that had resulted in a large-scale blackout throughout the city’s eastern district. That blackout had disrupted a surgery.

Now, a little girl laid in the funeral home.

Strictly speaking, Lent had not really done anything wrong. Even if he was dragged to a police station, the officers would likely just smile and release him.

Life was full of accidents. Perhaps the surgery would never have succeeded in the first place. Such things carried significant risks all along.

And if Hans Hospital’s backup generators had functioned properly, if the electricity had been restored in time, the outage might not have even mattered.

Besides, Lent had merely stood outside of the power plant, holding a sign while shouting protests with many others. At worst, he had been chasing a celebrity. He had not stormed the facility nor sabotaged anything himself.

Yet some explanations are only good enough for a courtroom; They do nothing to quiet one’s conscience.

After Karon had told the family what had happened, offering his bruised face as proof, there had been no hope of concealing anything. Lying would have meant forgoing any hope that the family would be given a discount for the girl’s funeral expenses. As an employee, Karon had no direct say in such matters.

Once the truth had come out, Uncle Mason had yanked Lent’s trousers down and struck him with a belt. Lent, who understood that his actions had contributed to the death of someone much younger than himself, had simply wept. He made no sound of pain, and asked for no mercy. Once the beating was done, Uncle Mason marched the boy to the girl’s bedside to apologize. While the gesture might have struck outsiders as pointless, or a performance for no one’s benefit, it was no performance. The Immers family had always prized rigor and candor, even in their grief.

Lent limped upstairs. Mina waited for him on the landing, and pressed a warm cloth to his face.

“Sis, I was wrong...” he muttered. Mina, knowing the little girl’s body lay just beneath their feet, could find no words to offer. Any such attempt would have gotten caught and stuck.

“How are you going to handle the fee?” Uncle Mason asked his wife.

“They requested Package B.”

Earlier, while still in the hearse, Ron had pointed out the make of the family’s car, indicating how profitable such a job usually would be. When a Package B was ordered, Aunt Mary would have a little lighter step for a time. Tonight, there was no such ease.

“Winnie and I talked,” she continued. “We’ll perform the full service, but tomorrow, when we write up the formal bill, we’ll give them a steep discount.”

“Oh,” Uncle Mason said. “Is that all?”

Aunt Mary brushed her hair back and let out a sigh. “This time, I don’t want us to make any profit. Let’s take a small loss.”

“Alright.” Uncle Mason’s face softened. To profit from this particular funeral would offer no solace, while losing a little could bring about some measure of peace. “I’ll go call the suppliers.”

There were certain funeral goods, like the specialty coffins, which had to be ordered at the last minute. The Immers family kept only the basics on hand, ultimately having more clients than suppliers.

“It’s late.” Aunt Mary shook her head. “Do it tomorrow.”

She waved her husband away, asking for a bit of solitude.

He left.

Alone, Aunt Mary began to clean the little girl’s body, her movements gentle and unhurried. Once the child was clean, Aunt Mary dressed her in fresh underclothes. She then pulled a round stool over to the end of the table, sat down, and began to massage the girl’s head with her hands.

Truthfully, most rituals and procedures that go into a funeral are intended for the living. This massage was no exception. The little girl was already gone, and could not possibly feel it. Yet, though the body under her hands was the child’s, it was Aunt Mary’s own heart that slowly relaxed.

Once the head massage was finished, the woman continued on to the rest of the body, repeating the same careful motions. After completing a full sequence, Aunt Mary finally began the embalming process. On the day they said farewell to her, the girl would be able to meet her family looking as natural, and as peaceful, as possible. That was the duty of a mortician, to preserve the dignity and composure of the dead for their departure.

There was another purpose as well, which was to give the dead’s family and loved ones a face that they could truly remember.

When people remember another person, what rises in the mind is often a single, frozen image, like a photograph locked in time. Why does “seeing them one last time” matter so much? Why does missing that moment become a lasting regret?

It’s because in everyday life, people rarely take the time to truly look at, or commit to memory, the faces of those close to them. The closer the person is, the easier they are to overlook, given a belief that there will always be more time with them, much more time.

Then, parting arrives without warning. Only then does one realize that the face they hold in their memory, the image preserved in their mind, is outdated, blurred, and growing indistinct.

Fear is not caused by mere loss, but by the inability to forgive oneself for having forgotten when remembering is what matters most.

Aunt Mary’s work existed to prevent that regret, at least as much as possible.

She had no intention of resting, refusing to allow herself that luxury. She meant to use the remainder of the night to see every last detail of the little girl’s arrangements through to completion. It had been a long time since she had worked with such a level of care, focus, and devotion.

At three in the morning, after drifting off to sleep and then waking once again, Karon delivered a pot of coffee to the basement and set a cup in front of Aunt Mary. She took a deep draught, tasting the heavy sugar, and felt a quiet satisfaction; Her nephew understood her ways. Karon took a seat beside the woman, perching upon another round stool.

The little girl on the cold steel table now wore a pink ballet dress. It was delicate and bright, and her feet were clad in new white slippers. “Her parents meant to give these to her as a gift after the surgery... if all had gone well.”

“Did they?” Aunt Mary asked softly. She proceeded to style the child’s hair, using a flat iron with unusual care, moving as if even the gentlest slip might burn the girl. Everyone knew that Aunt Mary, usually much less patient, occasionally used a gas torch to remove body hair from other corpses, yet at this moment, her tenderness was unmatched. She moved with painful precision.

“Is she pretty?” Aunt Mary asked.

Karon nodded. “A lovely little girl. They say she loved ballet; practiced hard every day.”

“That couldn’t have been easy.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Aunt Mary glanced up at Karon. “Your face?”

“It’s fine.” Karon shook his head.

“I neglected you. I should have treated you first.”

“It’s nothing; just one of life’s hurts. Such things are unavoidable.”

As she continued curling the little girl’s hair, Aunt Mary turned that phrase over in her mind. “Life’s hurts...” She paused. “Karon, sometimes I really do wonder, are you truly only fifteen? Or does a serious illness really change a person that much?”

“I’ll be sixteen soon.”

“You’re not yet,” she agreed. “But soon. We should celebrate properly.”

“It’s no milestone. There’s no need.”

“If life allows it, you don’t settle when you don’t have to,” Aunt Mary quietly declared. “Otherwise, how can you justify all the pain you endure?”

Karon nodded. “Alright, Aunt.”

Tonight’s job had been an accident. Even if Uncle Mason had gone to Hans Hospital instead of Karon, the outcome would not have changed. It was simply how life worked; calm on the surface, but with sharp stones hidden beneath the water.

“You’re not resting,” Aunt Mary said. “Something’s on your mind. I felt it the moment you came back. Lent made a mistake, and your uncle punished him.”

“I know.” The beating had happened on the second floor, but Karon had heard everything clearly from the third.

After a moment, he said, “But honestly, Lent didn’t actually do anything wrong.”

Another mother might have flown into a rage at such a comment, but Aunt Mary only nodded. “True, and that’s why he needed to be beaten.”

If Lent had not been hit, he would continue to feel uneasy. His elders, his guardians, would feel even worse. Blindly following the crowd wasn’t always a serious fault. When responsibility is shared, the law would often look away. However, if a person never learns to feel regret, or never stops to reflect on their actions, then the next time, they will follow just as blindly as before. While doing so might not be a crime, it was foolish.

“We’re discounting the funeral fee,” she said. “We’ll take the loss on this one.”

“Thank you, Aunt.”

“I’m Lent’s mother. This is my responsibility. If I could, I would kneel with Lent and your uncle before this girl’s parents.” She sighed. “But that would mean nothing, aside from easing our own guilt. It would be meaningless to them. They might even feel forced to swallow their disgust and comfort us instead.”

She shook her head. “It’s like watching snow fall through a window. From inside, it looks gentle and beautiful. Only when a snowflake slips down your collar and chills your skin do you understand how cold it really is.”

“Aunt.”

“Yes?”

“I thought I should be used to all of this by now; the bodies, coffins, wreaths, and black drapes. To everything.” He paused. “But this time, my emotions were shaken. It wasn’t just because of Lent, but because of something I felt today, there in that hospital corridor.”

He remembered seeing the little girl wheeled past him, and how she had turned her head to shyly smile at him.

For a moment, he wondered if he was being overly sentimental. He had seen far stranger things, as well as far more terrifying things, and yet, today, there was a quiet and persistent sorrow weighing on him.

“Does doing this work make us hard-hearted?” he asked. “Do we become cold?”

“That’s not what you’re asking,” Aunt Mary replied.

“I know,” Karon said. “But think of painters. They paint every day, again and again, searching for a work that truly moves them. Who would say that a painter loses all emotion just because they never stop painting?”

She finished curling the girl’s hair and set her tools aside. Lighting a cigarette, Aunt Marry offered the pack to Karon. He shook his head.

Exhaling smoke, she softly said, “We’re used to the dead, not to death itself.”

Standing, she gestured at the little girl laid out before them. “What a beautiful child; such a lovely dress. If only she could get up and dance one more time.”

Karon said nothing. Aunt Mary stepped over and set a hand on his shoulder. “You need to learn to let go, to adjust, just as you tell others to do. In that regard, you understand better than I do.”

“I understand, Aunt.”

“Would you like some supper?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Alright. I’ll prepare something. Turn off the lights when you come up.” Aunt Mary left the workshop, but Karon remained. He stayed seated on the round stool, staring at the girl’s peaceful face.

After a while, he stood and crossed the room to the phonograph, and put the music on. The bright melody of Roja Sprite filled the room, swirling through the coldness. Aunt Mary’s words echoed in his mind: “What a beautiful child; such a lovely dress. If only she could get up and dance one more time.”

If you want to dance, I can help you. He stepped to the girl’s side and held out his left hand.

For the first time, he tried to use his ability of his own volition. Before this, he had never truly controlled it; Every occurrence had been accidental and sudden, never calm, and certainly never deliberate.

As his hand hovered over the girl, an uncanny sensation washed over him. He felt her emotions, heard a voice she could no longer give breath to, and sensed a warmth that did not belong to the dead. It did not feel like hallucination; It was a lie so convincing that there was no room for doubt.

I was fortunate; I died, and yet by Tiz’s grace, I woke again. But you were not so lucky.

Tell me, is what I sensed correct? Were you calling out to me, or is this only my own stubborn longing? Do you remember? In that corridor, you smiled at me twice.

Karon pressed his fingers gently to the girl’s neck. If you wish to dance one last time, allow me to grant your wish.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, very slowly, the little girl was standing before him. She wore the same shy, blushing smile he had seen before, and she looked up at him in the same manner as she once had.

Karon did not notice the black, vine-like veins that spread out from beneath his feet. They crept outward, twisting across the tiles to seep into every seam of the floor.

Up on the third floor, lying on a windowsill, Pu’er jerked awake. Shock caused the black cat’s eyes to bulge. “Tiz?”

A heartbeat later, the astonishment on the feline face deepened. “Not Tiz!”

In the study, Tiz paused mid-stroke, his pen suddenly hovering above the page. He stared at the flame of the candle before him, its light wavering. “Order?”

He reached out and closed his hand around the fire. “No,” he said softly. “It is Order.”

***

This time, Karon did not pull back. He did not shift his perspective, nor did he pull away or draw closer. He simply extended his hand, in a perfectly natural manner.

The little girl smiled, her teeth pressing gently against her lower lip. She acted shy, or perhaps a bit embarrassed, yet was also unable to resist. Eventually, she placed her hand in his.

It had no weight, no warmth, and yet it felt real.

Karon motioned gently, telling her it was time to return. She rose, floating upward before him, and then slowly descended to settle back down, merging once more with her body. Down on the steel table, the little girl’s eyes opened.

There was no pallor, no trace of blood, and no sign of violence. There was only clarity and calmness.

She slowly sat up. She remembered Karon, the stranger she had caught a glimpse of on her way to the operating room. He had left quite an impression. She looked at him and said, “Big Brother, you really are very handsome.”

Karon laughed softly. He reached out by instinct, to pat her head in the same manner that he always did to Mina.

Then he remembered Aunt Mary’s careful ministrations, and the way she had arranged the girl’s hair just so, and he hesitated.

The girl, however, leaned forward of her own accord, to lightly rub her head against his palm. “Papa likes to pat my head like this too.”

“Oh?” Karon smiled. “Does he?”

It was a pity her parents were not present to see her sit up again. This was not because Karon wished to hide anything; Secrecy had nothing to do with it. Rather, allowing them to witness their daughter rise again, only to watch as she lay back down would do nothing but force them to endure the pain of losing her twice.

“Roja Sprite,” the girl said. “I always used this as accompaniment when I practiced dancing.”

She looked at him expectantly. “Big brother, can I dance for you?”

“All right,” Karon said. He sat back down on the round stool. Before him stood a sweet little girl in brand-new white ballet shoes and a pink tutu, with her makeup delicately applied.

The music began. She danced.

There were flaws. Even Karon, who was undoubtedly an amateur, could see that the movements were immature, and that the girl’s technique was imperfect. Still, her every step was careful, and every motion was made in earnest. She danced with complete sincerity.

It was not the true girl who danced. The real one was already gone.

Even so, it was also her. There was no difference that could be named.

Karon watched in silence as the girl danced with her entire heart. Time seemed to stretch into something eternal, cruelly so, for eternity often exists only to prepare the way for that which ends all too soon.

Finally, the music faded. The dance was over.

The girl bowed. Karon felt as though he were waking from a vivid dream. When he looked up once more, he saw that the girl had already returned to the steel table, and was lying down on her own, her behavior obedient and gentle.

Her hair had become slightly disheveled, and the white shoes had gained faint scuff marks. The pink tutu was gently creased. All of those details bore quiet witness to what had just taken place.

Karon began to applaud. After a moment, he stood, walked to the door of the studio, and reached for the light switch.

Then, he hesitated. Finally, there was a click, and the light went out.