after all, today's work wasn't finished. Although he didn't have to transport the coffin to the cemetery, he still had to take two corpses to the suburban Xiu’s crematory for cremation.

"You should go see your mother at the clinic; please send my regards to her." Aunt Mary said.

"Thank you, ma'am, thank you."

Paul expressed his thanks and immediately turned to run toward the clinic with his neighbor.

After Paul left, Uncle Mason's expression became troubled as he rubbed his behind and complained:

"It still hurts here."

Aunt Mary shot him a glare, scolding her husband, "You just like to be lazy!"

Normally, Uncle Mason didn't deal with corpses and disliked physical labor, so being lazy was expected;

but at that moment, Karen believed Uncle Mason was genuinely in no shape to work. He had probably been injured yesterday; he said it was a fall, but Karen suspected Uncle Mason had been beaten.

"Uncle, I'll go with you." Karen said.

Not that he was particularly eager to help; he just knew that some things didn't need to be hidden; it was understood without saying it out loud;

but for now, ensuring his own safety was the most important, and he needed to integrate into this family.

"Family" was Grandpa's soft spot;

to some extent, Karen was also seizing this weakness. Under the premise of ensuring his survival, he didn't think of himself as sinister or pretentious.Aunt Mary was initially reluctant to let Karen work, but the situation in the studio made her worry about her nephew’s recent health. However, they really needed male strength at the moment.

According to custom, except for close relatives, women and underage children are not suitable for visiting the crematorium, and the local standard for adulthood is fifteen years old.

Uncle Mason was overjoyed and patted Karen's shoulder affectionately, "Our Karen is really growing up! Ron, let's get the 'guests' loaded up."

Together, Karen and Ron first pushed Jeff, who had been alone in the basement for a day, out and then lifted him onto the modified "Nut Shell" hearse. They then brought out Mr. Mossan and placed him on the hearse as well.

During the loading, Ron was concerned that Karen might not have enough strength, so he lifted the “guest's” shoulders himself, allowing Karen to only handle the legs.

With the “guests” carefully loaded in the back, Uncle Mason took the driver’s seat, Aunt Mary beside him, and Karen settled in with Ron and the two “passengers.” As the hearse rolled westward, its rattling and creaks filled the vehicle, a strange reminder of the liminal space between life and death that this family business existed in. The car turned onto Mink Street, a row of houses lining either side, their curtained windows casting silent glances toward the passing vehicle. Karen noticed Uncle Mason slowing the car, his gaze shifting toward one of the nearby row houses. Following his uncle’s line of sight, Karen spotted a figure through a window—just the hint of a woman’s long legs, red high heels, and a slight sway that suggested more than it revealed. She sat partially obscured by the curtains, a glass and a book on the table next to her. Something about her posture, the careful placement of her legs, seemed deliberately poised. A sudden wave of dizziness hit Karen, a faint yet unpleasant feeling rising from deep within. The red high heels, bright and brazen, echoed an image from his recent nightmare. He closed his eyes briefly, attempting to shake off the uneasy sensation. *Those heels... that shadow from the dream...* Uncle Mason, catching Karen’s sidelong glance, turned back to the road, pressing on the gas pedal with a quick, almost defensive, look on his face. Karen decided to risk a lighthearted comment to ease the tension. “An old flame, Uncle?” he teased. “Nonsense,” Uncle Mason responded quickly, pressing the gas pedal harder. “Nothing like that,” he added, glancing back again to catch one last look at the woman watering her plants in the yard, now wearing an apron. Karen couldn’t tell if Mason’s voice was earnest or forced, but he took note of the odd tension in his uncle’s tone. As they left Main Street, Uncle Mason let out a sigh and, almost as if trying to convince himself as much as Karen, explained, “I just recently noticed she moved here with her husband. We’ve only exchanged a few polite nods; I’d never betray your Aunt Mary.” He paused, his voice softening. “I’ve already messed up too much in the past, Karen. I’ve made peace with my choices.” Karen listened, sensing the honesty in Mason’s words, but also a hint of something unspoken. “Of course, Uncle. Your secrets are safe with me.” Mason chuckled awkwardly, clearly relieved. “Thank you, Karen.” --- As they approached the suburban area on the way to Xiu’s crematory, Karen struggled to brace himself against the continuous jolting of the hearse. The bumpy roads outside the city made each movement feel as though the car were a ship in rough waters. Karen watched Jeff and Mr. Mossan's bodies lurch and lean toward each other with each turn, almost as if they were embracing, their movements grotesquely intimate in the cramped quarters of the car. Several times, Karen tried to separate the two bodies, but they would inevitably slide back together as the hearse bounced along the road. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of rough travel, the hearse pulled into a yard resembling a small workshop. A modest sign reading “Hughes Funeral Home” hung at the entrance, bearing marks of weathering and age. Uncle Mason tapped on the window, rousing Ron, who had dozed off in the corner, and together they began the somber task of unloading the bodies. A middle-aged woman in gray work attire approached as they lifted the stretchers from the hearse. Her eyes lingered on Karen, her gaze holding a strange glint of amusement. “Oh, what a handsome young man,” she murmured, directing her attention entirely toward Karen. He felt slightly uneasy under her scrutiny, but he managed a polite nod. “Good day, Mrs. Hughes,” Ron greeted, his voice warm but casual, as if this were routine. Mrs. Hughes barely acknowledged Ron, her attention fixed on Karen. She had an air of authority, her gray work clothes unable to conceal her curvaceous figure. Her skin was fair, and her features sharp, but there was something unsettling in the way she reached out, pinching Karen’s cheek with a light chuckle. Karen felt the uncomfortable intimacy of her touch and instinctively pulled his hand back, yet she seized it again, her fingers lingering in a way that made her intentions clear. Her flirtatious glance felt invasive, and Karen couldn’t help but notice a glint in her eye that reminded him of a predator sizing up its prey. “He’s my nephew,” Mason said, as if sensing Karen’s discomfort and trying to steer the interaction in a safer direction. Offering her a cigarette, he added, “My brother’s son.” Mrs. Hughes seemed mildly surprised. “Oh, your nephew? I haven’t seen him around before.” “He’s new here, helping us out with the family business,” Mason explained, and she gave a knowing nod. “Lucky you,” she said, casting Karen one last look before turning back toward the funeral home. “I’ll go prepare things. Handsome, I’ll see you in a bit.” As she left, Uncle Mason leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Mrs. Hughes is friendly,” he said, though Karen noticed the caution in his tone. Karen nodded, sensing there was more to his uncle’s warning than the words alone. But he simply replied, “Noted, Uncle.” --- Inside the funeral home, a heavy, greasy scent lingered in the air, mixing with an odd dampness that reminded Karen of mildew in an old bedroom. The furnishings bore signs of age, and the air was thick with the presence of unspoken stories and lives long past. Uncle Mason explained that Mrs. Hughes’s establishment had nearly been overtaken by a larger funeral company years ago, but they had managed to survive the takeover. The business had since struggled to keep pace as bigger chains expanded into the area. “They tried to buy us out too,” Mason muttered as they walked down a dimly lit corridor. “Your Grandpa would never agree to that, though. He believes in doing things right, not mass-producing funerals like they’re products on a shelf.” Karen listened, recognizing the quiet pride and resentment in Mason’s voice. The funeral business was more than a livelihood; it was a family legacy that couldn’t easily be sold or replaced. The mention of “mass-producing funerals” reminded Karen of the rough, bumpy ride earlier, a detail that felt almost hypocritical. But he kept this thought to himself, sensing that his uncle’s feelings ran deep. After a short walk, they reached the cremation room, where three furnaces stood, though only one was active. Inside, a man sat slumped on the floor, his disheveled hair and sunken eyes conveying the heavy grief he carried. Karen watched as an elderly worker, white-haired but energetic, opened the door to the furnace and called out to the man. “Sir, please come to receive your wife,” the worker said gently. The man looked up, dazed, as if struggling to comprehend his surroundings. He took a shaky step forward but stopped short when his eyes fell on the furnace. He recoiled, pressing himself against the wall, unable to approach. Old Darcy, the crematorium’s attendant, noticed Mason and offered him a cigarette. Mason reciprocated with a nod, and they exchanged a few words. “What’s wrong with him?” Mason whispered. Darcy chuckled, his voice tinged with disdain. “No tip, wouldn’t even buy an urn from us. Just wants his wife’s ashes and nothing more.” Darcy shook his head as he took a puff of his cigarette. “Some psychology professor he is, can’t even handle picking up his wife’s ashes.” The title caught Karen’s attention, and he stepped forward, drawn by a sense of empathy and professional curiosity. He looked at the man, sensing the anguish in his expression. “Sir,” Karen said softly, “you should go collect your wife.” The man’s hands trembled, his face a portrait of conflict and sorrow. Karen could tell that he was fighting a fierce internal battle, guilt mingling with grief. For some, the finality of death is incomprehensible until they are face-to-face with the remains of a loved one. “I… I can’t,” the man whispered, his voice breaking. “I… loved her so much…” Karen thought of the many people he had counseled in his previous life. The experience of grief varied for each person, often influenced by their unique circumstances and emotional depth. He remembered one particular patient who had been traumatized by witnessing his wife’s suffering during childbirth. The trauma had been so profound that he had eventually separated from her, unable to reconcile the love he held for her with the memories that haunted him. “Are you still afraid of her?” Darcy’s blunt question cut through the man’s silent struggle, adding an edge of cruelty to an already painful moment. The man’s face crumpled, a mixture of shame and sadness coloring his expression. Darcy’s words struck a nerve, deepening his guilt and sorrow. Karen watched, torn between sympathy and a growing awareness of how little comfort words could provide in such raw moments. --- The ceremony concluded with little fanfare. Karen and Mason waited as Darcy processed the remains, the mechanical sounds of the furnace filling the silence. When it was over, Darcy handed the ashes to the man, who accepted them with a heavy, shaking grip. He left without a word, his steps slow and burdened as he carried the remnants of his life out of the crematorium. As they prepared to leave, Karen felt a strange heaviness in his heart. The encounter with the grieving man, Darcy’s callousness, and the weight of their work pressed upon him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He glanced back at the furnace, feeling a sense of detachment, as if the line between life and death had grown fainter in his mind. In the hearse, the journey back was quiet. Karen stared out the window, the passing scenery blurred by his introspective thoughts. He had always believed that death was a finality, a moment to be respected and mourned. But this world, with its dark undercurrents and unspoken rules, seemed to hold different meanings. *Perhaps,* he thought, *this family business is about more than honoring the dead. Maybe it’s about navigating the mysteries they leave behind.* The faint echo of the radio’s static from his dream returned, unsettling him. It was a reminder that the boundaries between worlds were not as clear-cut as he had once believed. In the family’s work, the line between respect and indifference, tradition and exploitation, seemed to blur, leaving him uncertain of his place within it. As they neared home, Karen looked at Uncle Mason, who appeared tired yet satisfied. In his own way, Mason seemed at peace with his role, even if it meant bending the rules of decorum. For Karen, however, this life felt like a series of unanswered questions, each ritual and every passing day drawing him further into the mystery. *How long could he balance between understanding this world and becoming part of it?* The question lingered, heavy and unyielding, as they pulled into the driveway, the hearse silent and still.