Chapter 32: The Light Went Out

Chapter 32: The Light Fades

The basement,

Aunt Mary’s workshop.

Between Mary’s fingers, a single cigarette burned, its embers glowing low and slow.

Uncle Mason stood by the threshold, his hand clamped firmly around the nape of his son Lunt’s neck.

Lunt was weeping, the words slipping from his mouth in an endless, broken refrain:

"I’m sorry... I’m sorry..."

Uncle Mason, a man usually blessed with an easy temperament, now bore a face as dark and sullen as a thundercloud.

At last, as though she could no longer endure the grating sorrow of the room, Aunt Mary spoke.

"Go wash up. Don’t wake the young lady; she needs her rest."

Lunt had skipped school to join a march organized by Delice, the environmentalist girl from Wien. They had stormed the power plant, plunging the entire East District into a massive blackout—a blackout that had caused a fatal complication during the young lady’s surgery.

And now, she lay here.

In truth, Lunt had not committed a crime in any legal sense; even if they had hauled him off to the police station, the officers likely would have done nothing but chuckle.

Life, after all, was always fraught with accidents.

Who was to say the girl’s surgery would have succeeded anyway? It had been a highly risky procedure from the start.

And if Hans Hospital’s backup generator had functioned properly and restored power in time, wouldn’t the impact of the blackout have been averted?

Furthermore, Lunt had merely held a sign outside the power plant and chanted slogans along with the crowd; it was closer to a boy chasing an idol. He hadn't broken into the facility to commit sabotage.

Yet, there are excuses one can use to deceive a judge, but never to deceive oneself.

Karen had laid bare the events of the day.

He could not have concealed it—not only because of the bruises coloring his own face, but because hiding the truth would have meant he couldn't ask the family to discount the girl’s funeral expenses.

He was merely an employed member of the family business, entitled to a share of the profits but stripped of any real authority.

When the truth came out, Uncle Mason had simply stripped Lunt’s trousers and taken a belt to his backside.

Discovering that his actions today had cost the life of a girl several years his junior, Lunt only wept through the beating; he did not cry out in pain, nor did he beg for mercy.

When the thrashing was done,

Uncle Mason brought Lunt down to face the girl and "apologize."

To an outsider, it might have seemed a foolish act, a theatrical display of contrition.

But what kind of theater takes place in the privacy of one's own home, staged only for one’s own kin?

At the end of the day, the Inmerales family values had always been upright.

Lunt limped his way upstairs. At the top of the ramp, Mina was waiting to receive him, pressing a hot towel to his tear-stained face.

"Sister... I was wrong..."

"Ah."

Mina did not know how to comfort her younger brother, especially with the knowledge that the young girl’s body lay just below their feet. The words of solace withered before they could be spoken.

"The expenses—how shall we calculate them?" Uncle Mason asked his wife.

"Their family requested Package B," Aunt Mary replied.

Ron had pointed out their car earlier, marking them as a lucrative client.

In the past, a Package B order would have put a spring in Aunt Mary’s step, but tonight, she could find no joy in it.

Aunt Mary stubbed out her cigarette and continued.

"I’ve discussed it with Winnie. We will follow the standards of Package B, but when we give them the final quote tomorrow, we’ll apply a heavy discount."

"Oh." Uncle Mason nodded. "Just that?"

Aunt Mary brushed a strand of hair from her face and sighed. "Let us make no profit on this order. In fact, let’s take a bit of a loss."

"Very well."

The tension in Uncle Mason’s face finally began to ease.

Had they profited from this tragedy, a knot of unease would have remained in his chest. A loss felt better; it offered a meager solace to the soul.

"I’ll go upstairs and call the suppliers."

Certain funeral accoutrements with specific requirements, such as the casket, needed to be ordered at short notice. The Inmerales family kept common items in stock, but they could not store everything; after all, they functioned more as consumers of upstream companies rather than independent distributors.

Aunt Mary shook her head. "It’s too late. Arrange it tomorrow."

With that, Aunt Mary waved a hand, gesturing for her husband to vanish from her sight. Her heart was heavy with vexation.

"Mm." Uncle Mason departed.

Aunt Mary began to wash the young girl’s body with her own hands, her movements infinitely tender.

Once the washing was complete, Aunt Mary dressed her in a set of undergarments, then drew up a round stool to sit beside the bed, using her hands to gently massage the girl’s head.

In reality, the vast majority of funeral rituals and procedures were meant for the living, including the massage Aunt Mary was performing now. The girl was gone and could feel nothing.

Yet, though the girl was the one being massaged, it was Aunt Mary’s own heart that found relief.

When the head massage concluded, she moved on to the rest of the body.

With the preparatory routine finished, Aunt Mary began the embalming process, ensuring that on the day of the funeral, the girl could bid farewell to her loved ones in her most natural and beautiful state.

The role of a mortician is to preserve the dignity and decorum of the deceased as they depart.

It serves another purpose as well: to allow the friends and family to clearly remember the image of the departed.

When a person thinks of another, what rises in the mind is often a frozen photograph.

Why do people place such immense weight on "seeing them one last time," viewing it as a profound regret if missed?

Because in the humdrum of daily life, people rarely look closely enough to truly memorize the faces of those around them. Often, the closer the relationship, the easier it is to overlook, blindly assuming there is still plenty of time, a long road ahead.

It is only when the abrupt, unforeseen farewell arrives that one realizes the face in their mind—that mental photograph—has long since grown outdated, faint, and blurred.

The true terror is not the loss itself, but the unforgivable realization that you have forgotten when you were meant to remember.

Aunt Mary’s profession was dedicated to averting such regrets whenever possible.

She had no intention of resting, nor would she allow herself to. She meant to use the remaining hours of the night to complete everything for the girl.

Besides, it had been a very long time since she had worked with such earnest devotion.

...

At three in the morning, Karen, having slept and awakened, walked down to the basement carrying a coffee pot, placing a fresh cup before Aunt Mary.

Aunt Mary took a long draught. Her thoughtful nephew had added plenty of sugar, which pleased her greatly.

Karen pulled up another round stool nearby and sat down.

By now, the young girl lying upon the cold steel table was dressed in a lovely, pink dance dress. Upon her feet were a pair of pristine white ballet shoes.

"Her parents left these," Aunt Mary said softly. "They intended to give them to her as a gift once the surgery succeeded."

"Oh, is that so?"

Aunt Mary began to tend to the little girl’s hair, moving the iron with meticulous care, as though terrified of burning her scalp.

One had to remember that Aunt Mary was a woman who routinely used a blowtorch to remove body hair from other clients.

Yet now, she was exceedingly gentle.

"Is she beautiful?" Aunt Mary asked.

Karen nodded and said, "A very lovely little girl."

"Her parents said she adored ballet and practiced so hard."

"Is that so? It really couldn't have been easy."

"No, it really wasn't."

Aunt Mary looked up at Karen and asked, "The wound on your face?"

"It is fine now," Karen shook his head.

"I was careless; I should have tended to it for you first."

"It is nothing. These are the wounds of life, they are inevitable."

Aunt Mary continued ironing the girl's hair while turning those words over in her mind:

"The wounds of life. Karen, sometimes I am truly curious—are you really only fifteen? Or does surviving a great illness truly change a person this much?"

"I should be nearly sixteen."

"Your birthday hasn't arrived yet, though it is close. We ought to give you a proper celebration."

"It isn't a milestone birthday, there is no need."

"Life is short. When circumstances permit, one should avoid settling as much as possible, otherwise how could we ever be worthy of those wounds of life?"

Karen nodded. "Very well, Aunt Mary."

Today's arrangement had been an accident.

Even if Karen had not gone, and Uncle Mason had gone to Hans Hospital instead, it likely would have been unavoidable.

Such was life, resembling a tranquil stream concealing jagged rocks beneath its surface.

"Aren't you going to rest?" Aunt Mary asked.

"I have already slept."

"It seems something is weighing on your mind. I could feel it the moment you returned. Lunt made a mistake, and your uncle has already disciplined him."

"I know."

His uncle had delivered the beating on the second floor, but Karen, up on the third floor, had heard it clear as day.

Even so, Karen added, "Actually, Lunt wasn't entirely in the wrong."

Had it been a fiercely protective, irrational mother hearing Karen say such things, she likely would have exploded with rage;

after all, you were the one who informed on him, he was the one who got beaten, and now you claim he wasn't entirely in the wrong?

But Aunt Mary merely nodded and said:

"Yes, he simply deserved a beating."

Without a beating, he would not feel at ease, and his elders—his guardians—would feel even less at peace.

Blind conformity was sometimes not a grand sin, for the law does not punish the masses; yet if one fails to repent and reflect, one will likely continue to conform blindly next time. It still might not be a crime, but it would certainly make one a fool.

"I will discount the funeral expenses. For this order, we will operate at a loss."

"Thank you, Aunt Mary."

"I am Lunt's mother; it is my duty. If it were possible, I would truly wish to take Lunt and your uncle to kneel before the little girl's parents.

But that would achieve nothing. Aside from lessening our own sense of guilt, it would be of no use to her parents whatsoever.

They would even have to suppress their own disgust to offer you comfort.

Alas,

it is rather like the snow falling outside. Watching it through the window from inside the room, one thinks, 'Oh, look at all the lovely snowflakes drifting down.'

Only when one steps outside and shivers as a single snowflake slips into the collar can one comprehend the true bitter cold."

"Aunt Mary."

"Yes? What is it?"

"I thought I should have grown accustomed to corpses, coffins, wreaths, black armbands, and all such matters by now.

Yet for some reason, this time, I feel my emotions have been deeply affected.

It isn't merely because of Lunt,

but rather how I felt myself today, standing in the hospital corridor."

Karen still recalled how the little girl, as she was wheeled past him into the operating room, had smiled at him quite shyly.

He suddenly wondered

whether he was being somewhat overly sentimental today—no, far too sentimental.

He had long since witnessed far stranger, more bizarre, and infinitely more terrifying spectacles, yet on this particular day, he found himself consumed by melancholy.

"What, must those in our profession truly possess hearts of stone? Have we become cold-blooded?"

"That is not what I meant."

"I know. But it is just like a painter who must paint and create continuously every single day; what they pursue is a masterpiece that satisfies them while moving their own soul. Who would ever believe that because a painter produces many works, they become numb, losing their spirituality and their capacity to be moved?"

Having finished ironing the hair,

Aunt Mary set down the curling iron and lit a cigarette for herself. When she offered the pack to Karen, he shook his head in refusal.

Exhaling a plume of smoke, she said,

"We are merely accustomed to dead people; we are not accustomed to life and death."

Standing up, Aunt Mary pointed with her smoke-free hand toward the exquisitely dressed little girl before them:

"What a beautiful little girl, what a beautiful dress. There she lies. If only she could sit up and dance once more, how wonderful that would be."

Karen remained silent.

Aunt Mary walked over to Karen, reaching out to pat his shoulder. "Keep your chin up. You must learn to adjust your own mind, you know? Just like when you offer psychological counseling to others. In this regard, you ought to know better than I."

"I understand, Aunt Mary."

"Would you care for some supper?"

"Yes, thank you, Aunt Mary."

"Alright, I shall go prepare it. Remember to turn off the light when you come upstairs later."

With that, Aunt Mary stepped out of the workshop.

Karen remained seated on the round stool, gazing at the exquisitely arrayed little girl before him, whom his aunt had so meticulously adorned.

After a short while,

Karen stood up, walked over to the phonograph, and pressed down;

The cheerful melody of "The Loya Pixie" rang out, swirling throughout the entire studio.

His aunt’s parting words echoed in Karen’s ears: "What a beautiful little girl, what a lovely dress, she is just lying here, if only she could sit up and dance one more time, how wonderful that would be."

If,

You wish to dance,

I can help you.

Karen walked over to the little girl and extended his left hand.

This was his first time actively trying to use his ability, an ability he actually had not mastered yet, for every previous use was either an accident or sudden, and under a calm state of mind, there had not been a single instance.

But at the moment he extended his hand,

Karen inexplicably had a feeling,

He seemed able to perceive the emotions of the little girl lying before him;

He seemed able to hear her voice, even though she could not speak;

He seemed able to perceive her temperature, even though she had long since grown ice-cold;

This did not feel like an illusion, but rather a false sort of supreme reality.

I am fortunate,

I had clearly already died, yet because of Dis, I woke up once more.

And you,

Are not as fortunate as I am.

Please tell me,

Is my perception correct,

Is it you calling out to me, or is it merely my own wishful thinking?

Do you still remember,

In the hallway,

You actually smiled at me twice.

Karen placed his fingers against the little girl’s neck.

If you wish to dance one final dance, I shall grant you this wish.

Karen closed his eyes,

And then,

Slowly opened them again,

He saw standing before him, a little girl.

The little girl still wore a bashful smile, looking at him.

What Karen failed to notice was that beneath his feet, lines like black vines were currently spreading out slowly, gradually aligning with and seeping into the patterns of the studio's floor tiles.

Meanwhile on the third floor,

Upon the windowsill,

Purr, who had already fallen asleep, suddenly raised her head, her face showing a look of astonishment:

"Dis?"

Immediately following that, the shock on the black cat's face grew even deeper:

"It is not Dis!!!"

Inside the study,

Dis, who was writing something before a single candle, suddenly stopped his pen;

He looked at the flickering candle flame before him,

Murmuring:

"Order?"

Right after,

He reached out to control the flame of the candle,

Saying:

"No, it is Order."

……

This time,

Karen did not step back, nor did he use his own perspective to shift, zoom out, zoom in, or focus;

Instead, he quite naturally extended his hand.

The little girl smiled faintly, biting her lower lip with her pearly teeth, somewhat embarrassed, yet ultimately unable to resist, she placed her hand onto Karen's palm.

Her hand had no weight, nor any warmth, yet it was so very real.

Karen gestured that she could return to her body... her, remains.

The little girl floated up, lying flat in front of Karen, and then slowly descended, finally merging into one with her remains.

The lovely little pixie lying on the steel plate opened her eyes.

There was no white, no blood, no violence, there was only clarity and peace.

She slowly sat up,

She remembered Karen,

Because this was a stranger who had left a deep impression on her when she was encountered on the way to the operating room.

She spoke up:

"Big brother, you really are so good-looking."

"Heh."

Hearing this, Karen smiled, and instinctively reached out wanting to pat her head just as he usually patted his sister Mina's head.

But then remembering the hair Aunt Mary had just styled for her, he hesitated;

However, the little girl proactively nudged her head beneath Karen's palm, rubbing against it:

"Daddy liked to pat my head like this too."

"Oh, is that so?"

A pity, your parents cannot be here, to see you sit up once more.

It was not that Karen intended to conceal anything deliberately, at least not for the sake of keeping a secret;

rather, to let her parents witness their daughter sit up, only to watch her inevitably lie back down, would be akin to making them endure the agony of losing their daughter a second time.

"The Logia Elves, I used to love practicing my dances to that accompaniment.

Big brother, shall I dance for you?"

"Alright."

Karen sat back down upon the round stool.

The lovely little girl, arrayed in brand-new white ballet slippers and a pink dance dress, her makeup meticulously applied, began to move to the melody.

Her posture could hardly be called perfect; even to an untrained eye like Karen's, a certain childishness and a few flaws were discernible, yet she danced with utmost earnestness, an exquisite dedication.

This was not the real her, for the real her was already dead;

yet this was indeed the real her, as they were one and the exact same.

Karen watched with earnest appreciation,

while she danced, entirely lost in the moment;

time, at this very juncture, seemed to enter a realm of eternity, though the cruelty lay in how eternity is so often used merely as a prelude to the fleeting.

At last,

the melody concluded,

the dance came to an end,

and she began her final bow;

Karen felt as though he had inhabited a vivid dream, and when he looked up in sudden realization, he found that the little girl, having finished her bow, had already laid herself back down upon the steel plate bed with utmost sense and obedience.

Her slightly disheveled hair, the faintly soiled white slippers, and the small creases upon her dance dress spoke silently of what had just transpired.

Karen began to applaud;

then,

he stood up,

walked to the doorway of the workshop,

reached out his hand,

touched the switch,

hesitated for a brief moment,

but ultimately,

with a soft click,

the light went out.