Elias soon learned that panic was useless.
The way his heart leapt, the numbness creeping into his fingers, the screaming certainty inside him that something was wrong—none of it showed on his face. His eyes remained calm behind thin glasses, his lips settled into an indifferent line. He sat upright, composed, as though nothing in the world could unsettle him.
Inside, Elias was a breath away from losing control.
The day after he settled into the funeral parlor, he ventured out—not because he wanted to, but to test the situation. He told himself he needed groceries. That he needed to familiarize himself with the town. Mostly, he told himself that hiding would only make things worse.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
And the world immediately informed him that it was no longer normal.
A shadow clung to the opposite wall, shaped like a man with his neck bent at an impossible angle. Something writhed along the edge of a rooftop, its limbs twisting backward. At the bus stop, a woman stood waiting—half her face gone, eyes fixed on the road for a bus that would never arrive.
Elias did not react.
He walked on slowly, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze fixed straight ahead.
They won't feel so close, he told himself, if I pretend they aren't there.
His footsteps echoed faintly along the sidewalk. With each step, his body braced itself—expecting cold fingers around his ankle, a hand tightening at his throat, a whisper against his ear.
None of it happened.
Instead, a cheerful voice shattered the tension.
"Morning! You're new, right?"
Elias froze internally. Outwardly, he stopped and turned.
A woman in her fifties stood beside a small vegetable stall, tying her hair back with a strip of cloth while arranging cucumbers. Her smile was easy and unthinking—the kind worn by someone long accustomed to greeting strangers.
"Yes," Elias replied after a brief pause. His voice was deep, smooth.
The woman brightened. "Thought so. Haven't seen you around before. You moved into the old funeral house?"
"…Yes."
"Oh! It's been years since that place wasn't empty." She waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry, it's sturdy. Old Graves family property. Good people."
Elias blinked once.
The Graves family.
So the maternal side of this body still existed.
"I'm Elias," he said.
Her eyes lit up. "Graves, then! I knew it—you've got the look. Quiet eyes. Your aunt used to work at the clinic. Kind woman." She smiled warmly. "Take care of yourself, alright?"
"I will," Elias said.
She handed him a cucumber. "First one's free. New face in town."
Elias accepted it silently.
Behind her, the shadow on the wall jerked violently.
He said goodbye and continued on.
It was… strange.
The ghosts were everywhere—peering, crawling, lurking in places no living thing should be. Yet the townspeople passed them without a shred of fear. They smiled, chatted, shook hands, welcomed one another as though this were the safest place in the world.
Children ran through the street, kicking a ball. A man waved as he rode past on a bicycle. A shopkeeper bowed politely as Elias passed.
No one screamed. No one panicked.
And not a single person noticed the thing crouched atop the lamppost above their heads.
Elias's hands curled slightly in his pockets.
So this was how it was.
The living carried on their gentle, blameless lives.The dead lingered close—restless, unseen.And Elias stood between them.
A boy kicked his ball too hard near the bakery. It bounced once, twice, then passed straight through the legs of a pale figure sprawled on the ground, a hole yawning in its chest.
Elias watched the ball pass through the ghost like smoke.
The boy ran after it, then hesitated and looked around.
"Mister?"
Elias looked down.
"Can you help me?" the boy asked, pointing. "My ball went too far."
The ghost slowly turned its head.
Its gaze locked onto Elias.
His stomach twisted.
Still, he stepped forward.
He picked up the ball and handed it back to the child at the roadside.
"Thanks!" the boy said, already running off.
The ghost stared at Elias for a long moment. Then, gradually, it turned and sank into the wall, vanishing.
Elias straightened.
His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure it could be heard.
No one reacted.
An elderly woman stood at a crosswalk nearby, gripping her cane uncertainly as cars rolled past.
Elias stepped beside her.
"May I?" he asked softly, offering his arm.
She smiled in relief. "Oh, thank you, young man."
They crossed together. Halfway across, something brushed against Elias's calf—cold, damp, clinging.
He didn't look down.
The woman chatted about the weather, about how little the town had changed over the years, about how nice it was to see young people returning.
At the other side, she squeezed his arm gratefully. "Such a polite boy. Your mother raised you well."
Elias swallowed.
He didn't correct her.
By the time he returned to the funeral parlor, his shoulders ached with tension. He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, breathing slowly through his nose.
Nothing followed him inside.
The air was still. Quiet. Safe.
Elias slid down until he was sitting on the floor.
Days passed like that.
He learned which streets were bad. Which corners to avoid. Which shops felt brighter, warmer, easier to breathe in. The town itself remained unfailingly kind—almost overly so.
People greeted him by name. Asked if he was settling in well. They brought small gifts: bread, soup, old furniture they no longer needed.
And Elias accepted them all, standing quietly between the living and the dead
*****
Elias did not expect his first customer to arrive so soon.
The bell of the funeral parlor rang low in the afternoon, its sound dull and heavy, as though even it understood where it was.
Elias had been rearranging the shelves again. There was no need—the place was already spotless—but keeping his hands busy kept his thoughts from spiraling.
He straightened his gloves, turned them over once more.
A couple stood in the doorway.
They looked exhausted. Not the loud, theatrical kind of grief filled with sobbing and collapse, but the quiet kind that hollowed people out from the inside. The woman clutched her bag, her fingers pale and tight.
The man stood half a step in front of her, shoulders rigid, eyes darting as though he expected something to spring at him.
"You're the funeral director?" the man asked.
"Yes," Elias replied.
His voice was steady. Soft. Professional.
The man hesitated. "We saw your notice. The… basic service."
Elias nodded. He had posted it deliberately—cheap, minimal. He needed customers. More importantly, he needed something simple. Something ordinary.
The woman finally spoke. "Our son passed away."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Elias said.
Relief flickered across their faces—subtle, almost ashamed. Perhaps they had expected judgment. Suspicion. Pity. Instead, they were met with calm.
The body arrived soon after.
It was small.
A boy, no older than seven, wrapped in white cloth. His face was peaceful, lips slightly parted, as though he might draw another breath at any moment.
Elias guided the parents through the paperwork, explaining procedures, timelines, necessities. The man spoke haltingly, eyes lowered.
"We—we have things to take care of. Debts. Work. Our daughter… she's sick. We haven't eaten properly in days."
The woman bit her lip. "We'll come back later."
Elias nodded.
"I'll take care of everything," he said.
They thanked him far more than necessary before leaving.
The moment the door closed, the temperature shifted.
Elias felt it immediately.
Not danger.Not hostility.
Something… sad.
He lifted his gaze.
A small figure hovered near the window, feet brushing the floor without truly touching it. A boy with short hair and bright eyes, slight and pale. His hands pressed against the glass as he peered inside—not frightened, only curious.
"…Right," Elias murmured. "Of course."
He exhaled slowly.
The barrier held. The note had mentioned it—wandering spirits could not enter the parlor unless invited.
Elias studied the boy again.
No twisted limbs. No hollow eyes. No grotesque wounds. Just a child, indistinguishable from any other—save for the faint glow around him, the way the light passed through his form.
Elias rubbed his forehead.
Just get through this.
He turned back to the body.
His hands moved with unsettling ease. Washing. Changing. Adjusting. Every motion careful, respectful—almost practiced.
Halfway through, he realized something was wrong.
He wasn't fumbling.
He wasn't panicking.
He knew exactly what to do.
Elias stared at his hands.
That necklace again, he thought.
The red cord at his throat burned faintly against his skin. The note had mentioned it too—remnants of memory, unnoticed by those who came after him.
"Creepy," Elias muttered. "Very creepy."
When he looked up, the boy was closer—standing in the doorway.
Elias stiffened.
"…You can come in?" he asked.
The boy grinned.
"I knew it! Mister can see me!"
Elias's thoughts stalled.
"…Yes," he said after a moment. "Unfortunately."
"You're not like the others," the boy said, nodding earnestly. "They cry. Or scream. Or pretend I'm not there."
Elias looked away.
"I specialize in pretending," he replied.
The boy giggled.
They talked.
Slowly. Carefully.
The boy spoke of his parents—how tired they were, how often they argued now, how they cried when they thought no one was watching. He spoke of his fever, the cold that wouldn't leave him, how thirsty he had been, how he wanted to call for water but couldn't.
Elias listened.
His face remained still.
Something inside him tore quietly.
"I don't blame them," the boy said softly. "They're just… really tired."
"And your siblings?" Elias asked.
The boy's smile faded. "They're sick too. Mama cries at night. Papa blames himself. I don't want them to be sad."
The urge struck Elias suddenly—sharp and painful. He wanted to pull the boy into his arms. To tell him none of it was his fault. That it was unfair. That it was cruel.
His expression refused to move.
Instead, he held out his hands, awkward and uncertain.
"This is going to be strange," Elias said.
The boy nodded eagerly.
The gloved hands rested on the boy's shoulders.
Elias froze.
He could feel him.
Not cold. Not warm.
Just… present.
"…Huh," Elias whispered.
The boy hugged him tightly.
Elias stood rigid, like a piece of wood.
"…Alright," he said weakly. "That's enough."
The boy laughed and slowly pulled away.
"Thank you, Mister," he said. "I feel lighter."
Elias swallowed.
"I'll handle things," Elias said. "Go. I'll take care of everything."
The boy nodded—then hesitated.
"Mister?"
"Yes?"
"You're scary," the boy said seriously. "But you're kind."
Elias stared.
Before he could answer, the boy smiled once more and faded away, dissolving like mist in sunlight.
The room fell silent.
Elias stood there for a long moment.
Then something clinked softly against the floor.
A gold coin.
Elias stared at it.
"…What?"
He bent down and picked it up, turning it between his fingers.
Payment?A blessing?
Elias sighed and slipped the coin into his pocket.
"My first job," he muttered, glancing at the prepared body, then the empty doorway."And I get paid by the dead."
He leaned back slightly, tired already.
"…This is going to be a long career."