I was fairly sure I'd met a dead man last night, but unfortunately for me, it seemed he was very much alive. When I returned to the funeral home a couple of hours later than intended, Francesca had left and Davis was in his office, just as I expected.

While my thoughts did linger on that man I’d briefly spoken with and then not so briefly sat with, I quickly dismissed all curiosities about him. It would be a waste to lend another thought to the encounter since I had no intention of ever meeting him again. That was unless I wanted to risk him remembering me.

The following morning was quiet and, so far, uneventful, just as I preferred. I was making my way down the hall with only one destination in mind. There was still unfinished business from the previous day that I had to address sooner rather than later.

“Oh, so you’re still here.”

A familiar voice interrupted my thoughts. At the end of the hallway was Hendrik standing there and staring at me with disinterest. We hadn’t spoken or even crossed paths since our first meeting, but his distaste for me hadn't wavered at all.

“Just as you are, Mister Franssen,” I responded with an equally cold tone that made him narrow his eyes at me.

He walked forward, hands in his pockets as every step echoed against the hardwood floor, vibrating through the corridor.

“Try not to bother the other staff here. The last thing they need is another inconvenience.”

He didn't say anything else, not even sparing a glance as he strode past me. It was obvious with his pace that he wasn't eager to stay for long, though it was curious why the man seemed so vehemently against me without any clear reason. Usually, it was easy enough to figure out why someone disliked me, but now, with only one person knowing about my past, it was less obvious.

But did I care enough to find out? Not particularly.

Regardless of whatever it was, I was at least relieved he didn’t want to stick around for a chat. I would already have enough talking to do today so I spared him no second thought and continued down on my path. When I reached the door at the end of the hall, I stopped in front of it before knocking.

There was a faint 'come in' from inside which gave me the permission I needed to enter and I twisted the handle before pushing the door open. Davis was sat by his desk, head resting against his arm and nose practically sunk into a document. He raised his head and his eyes met mine with a friendly smile.

“What a surprise, I didn’t expect you to come and visit! Tell me, how's the work here been so far?”

“It's fine. Alfred has been a good mentor.”

“That’s a relief to hear, especially now that you're calling him by his name. Maybe he'll finally stop complaining about that," he joked, but quickly cleared his throat when he was met with nothing more than a blank expression from me, "But was there something you needed? I'm guessing you didn't just drop by for a chat.

“That’s right,” I said before pausing for a moment. I wasn’t entirely sure how to say what was on my mind without potentially offending him but I decided it'd be best to be blunt. “Do you know how long it will be until I’m free to leave?”

Upon hearing my question, his expression immediately dropped. "Are you still set on leaving once everything is sorted out?

“Yes, I see no reason for intruding here any longer than I have already, and if repaying you for what you’ve given me so far is what you’re concerned about—”

“No, that isn't the point. I don't need you to pay me back."

My eyes narrowed. I'd assumed that if this man really had no ulterior motives, he’d at least want compensation for the lodging and food he’d provided me so far, or even some sort of interest in it. That would be logical.

“Then what is it?”

“I––" he cut himself off with a heavy sigh as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Is it so wrong for you to stay here? Do you not like working here?”

“No, I am content with the work I’ve been doing.”

“Then why do you want to go so badly? I know I said you’re free to leave, but I thought you’d at least enjoy it here.”

“My enjoyment is irrelevant to this matter,” I pointed out, my voice growing lower at his disagreement. "Mister Davis, if someone were to find out what you did and who I am, I realise that it would not only compromise your business, your safety, but also the rest of the staff.”

In truth, I wasn’t overly attached to either the director or anyone else here. I’d be leaving them anyway, and all I wanted after the war was to live a quiet life; one where I was neither an inconvenience nor a concern to anyone. I would just be someone who existed and could be forgotten.

Maybe then the noise would finally disappear.

But, I wasn’t going to jeopardise their safety or livelihood with a legality issue in pursuit of that. I wasn’t interested in compromising someone else's life, and as Davis hesitated to respond, it seemed he already knew that too.

“You were a soldier. You’re not anymore, and that won’t happen.”

How naive.

“Mister Davis—”

“And what about you? Where would you go?” Davis cut me off, his tone growing increasingly sterner than anything I'd heard from him before. "If you left now, do you even know where you would go? Because you’re clearly not eager to return to Candeur.”

Candeur...

My teeth gritted just at the thought of that, but he was right. I had already considered the possibility of leaving to find alternative work and accommodation. Even if I couldn’t, I was fine with living on the streets if I had to since it wasn't far from what I used to, but Davis was unlikely to view this as preferable.

“I don’t know.”

“Then stay here a little longer until you do, or at least until you figure out where you want to go.”

As much as I didn't want to admit it, his request wasn't unreasonable. But before I could respond, a loud cry pierced through the entire building and we both grew silent.

—

Davis and I didn’t resume our conversation and left it unfinished as we both rushed towards the source of that sound: the embalming room. When we walked through the door, the first thing I noticed was a trolly on the ground, having been knocked over and the tools stored on it were also scattered across the floor.

Hendrik stood silently by the wall, watching as Francesca knelt on the ground beside an older woman. The woman’s eyes were puffy and red through her weeping as Francesca tried to console her. It was a look I could only describe as anguish.

But more noticeably, there was that familiar scent of decay also in the room. My eyes drifted towards the embalming table in the centre where a body was laid on top of it completely lifeless and unmoving. His hand peaked out from under the shroud that covered it, the skin discoloured, and flesh already beginning to rot.

“That isn’t my son,” the woman said through a strained voice, her fingers digging into Francesca’s skirt.

“Mrs Wright, I—”

“That isn’t my son!” she cried again even louder. “My son, my precious Anthony is still alive. I know he is...”

Tears fell down her cheeks. Her brown hair layered with grey strands grew more dishevelled with every outburst.

“You said the body was beyond recognisable, didn’t you? That they weren’t certain that this body was his. Look, I know my son, and that can’t be him.”

“Mrs Wright, you must understand that it’s highly likely that’s Mister Wright’s body since he was wearing his name tag at the time of death.”

“No, I refuse!” she yelled stubbornly, her voice growing louder. Her finger shook around the fabric of Francesca’s skirt as her head fell to her lap. Tears began to bleed into the fabric as her words became muffled. “He’s going to come back home to me… He promised… He promised…”

“Mrs Wright,” Davis said, his voice soft and gentle as he knelt down beside her. He put a hand on her back, slowly rubbing it as he tried to calm her, “Let’s get you some tea.”

Davis and Francesca helped the woman to her feet. She’d stopped speaking at that point, only trying to suppress the sobs that choked in her throat. When they eventually walked her out of the room, I was left alone with Hendrik. His eyes lingered on those three as they exited before shifting towards the mess on the ground.

“Help me clean this up,” he said. His usual coldness was gone, replaced with something quieter.

I didn’t say anything, only kneeling on the floor to start picking up the scattered instruments. In fact, neither of us said anything to the other. It didn’t feel like there was anything to say.

I’d seen similar breakdowns in the past with soldiers after their allies had met a similar fate. I never truly understood why they would act so irrationally when conveying their anguish; death was always inevitable whether or not they lost their life in war. However, I found that in those situations, it was best to remain silent since anger only seemed to amplify under those circumstances.

I stood back up to place the equipment I grabbed on the counter when I noticed that the man’s arm was still hanging out from underneath the shroud. I reached towards his arm, about to move it back onto the table and cover it again, but when I did, a sudden flash of white clouded my eyes. My vision was engulfed by a blur of vibrant colours and irregular shapes that gradually contorted into something more vivid.

“Mother!”