Chapter 9: This Chapter is Wonderful (2/4)

Chapter 9: A Striking Turn of Events (2/4)

“Oh, the Lord have mercy on your soul,” Old Darcy chuckled, his voice dripping with malicious glee.

He knew all too well what a staggering loss cremation represented for the Inmeles family.

In truth, it wasn't a deficit per se, but rather that a traditional burial would have yielded far greater margins—and a profit forfeited was, in their line of work, indistinguishable from a loss.

“Sir, come and fetch your wife,” Old Darcy urged again, exhaling a lazy ring of gray smoke.

The man raised his eyes in a vacant gaze, rising in silence, but the moment his sight fell upon the incinerator beyond the glass pane, his spine pressed flat against the wall once more, as though every fiber of his being resisted the spectacle before him.

Indeed,

who could instantly reconcile themselves to the fact that the beloved companion of their bed had been reduced to a mere handful of ash?

Karen heard Uncle Mason filter a low whisper toward Old Darcy: “What’s the matter?”

Taking another drag from his cigarette, Old Darcy gave a faint, disdainful shake of his head and murmured back:

“No tip offered, won’t buy a urn from the parlor either. Heh.”

Had the patron provided a gratuity, or perhaps purchased the house "merchandise,"

they would naturally have been accorded certain considerations.

For instance, if one were seized by dread or unease, Old Darcy the stoker would gladly gather the remains into the vessel and deliver them directly into your hands.

Or, should a relative wish to personally gather the fragments of their kin, Old Darcy would meticulously crush the larger bones to ease their task.

Whether the man was simply destitute or genuinely ignorant of these customs remained unclear; his eyes held nothing but a profound, unblinking emptiness.

Sensing his dazed ineptitude, Old Darcy scoffed under his breath, “A professor of psychology, no less, and he hasn't the slightest grasp of this.”

Oh?

The title caught Karen’s attention.

What a coincidence, to cross paths with a colleague of his former life.

Karen stepped forward of his own accord, looking upon the man, and said softly:

“You ought to go and receive your lady now.”

“I… I…” The man’s hands were trembling violently.

One could see the fierce psychological war waging within him.

In truth, if affection ran deep and a life was shared to the end, the departure of a loved one seldom evoked the cinematic horror of a ghost story; rather, their remains felt… entirely ordinary.

Yet the emotional architecture of some individuals was peculiar; Karen recalled a patient from his past life who loved his wife dearly, choosing even to accompany her into the delivery room—a gesture of profound devotion, yet… it left him with a severe psychological trauma, culminating in a divorce and an affliction so profound that the mere sight of women and children sent him into tremors of dread.

“Are you quite afraid of your own wife then?” Old Darcy prodded, impatient. “Do hurry, there are others waiting in line.”

“I… it is not that…” A mask of struggle and self-reproach twisted the man's features; clearly, Old Darcy's barb had pierced the husband with a deep, agonizing guilt.

In matters of the mind, there existed a divide between the "visceral" and the "cognitive"; the cognitive could be mastered, but the visceral response was an entirely different beast to tame.

“It is not… I do not fear her… but… but I…”

Karen let out a quiet sigh,

reached out,

and patted the man gently on the shoulder.

Very well, then,

for the sake of a fellow professional.

Turning on his heel, Karen walked over to Mason:

“Uncle, we are in a hurry to get home anyway. Let me go and collect the ashes for him.”

Hearing this, Old Darcy felt a prickle of displeasure in his chest, offering a lukewarm observation:

“Your nephew possesses a remarkably tender heart.”

There was no genuine praise in his cadence.

Mason shrugged, replying, “Old Darcy, I am indeed in a rush to return; if I am late, Mary will have my head again.”

“Fine, fine, fine.”

Old Darcy relented,

“Wheel up one of your corpses first, and I shall gather the other.”

Ron pushed Mr. Moisan inside, and after a brief hesitation, Karen stepped in to assist Ron in lifting Mr. Moisan onto the conveyor platform of the incinerator.

Though Mr. Moisan had "manifested" his spirit the previous night,

expressing a desperate desire to escape cremation;

Karen was powerless to aid him. Even if the previous "Karen" had left him six thousand lubes—ample to purchase a coffin at cost—what of the exorbitant expenses of a burial plot?

More importantly… what right or reason had he to demand that his family grant special charity to an ordinary client?

His grandfather was still alive,

and even if his grandfather passed, his uncle remained,

and this household was not yet his to command… nor, for that matter, his to ruin.

With these duties discharged, Karen moved over to Old Darcy's side, watching the man rake through the ashes with an iron hook.

Old Darcy glanced sideways at the young man standing behind him,

and asked:

“First time here, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Never seen this before?”

“Never.”

“A proper young gentleman indeed,” Old Darcy mocked gently.

A male of the Inmeles line, witnessing ash for the first time.

Karen pointed to the heap of fragments on the floor and inquired, “Should it not be ash?”

He placed a slight emphasis on the word "ash."

In his memory, after cremation, the remains were supposed to be white and fine, akin to flour.

Yet what lay before him was a mound of shattered bone; there was dust, certainly, but bone fragments comprised the majority, and substantial ones at that.

Old Darcy looked puzzled: “It is always thus.”

“Ah, I see.”

The realization dawned on Karen that the cinematic depictions of his former world had deceived him.

Observing Old Darcy toss his spent cigarette butt to the floor, Karen reached into his pocket, retrieved the pack Paul had given him, drew out a single cigarette, and proffered it to the stoker.

Old Darcy accepted the offering,

His expression softened considerably,

yet he didn’t fail to offer a reminder:

“That is not how one plays the good Samaritan.”

“Heh.” Cullen understood his meaning and could only explain, “He visited our school once and gave us an open lecture, so I suppose he counts as a teacher of mine.”

Upon hearing this justification,

Old Darcy smudged his lips against the filter tip of his cigarette,

“I see.”

Promptly,

Old Darcy slipped a glove onto his left hand, picked up a small iron hammer with his right, and squatted down.

He began to tap and strike against those massive fragments of bone, shattering them into smaller pieces.

“Does everyone carry away all the ashes like this?” Cullen asked out of curiosity.

Old Darcy let out a dry huff and said, “Most people only take a portion.”

“Oh,” Cullen said, then added, “Um...”

“Can't you see I’m right in the middle of it? It’s for your uncle’s sake,” Old Darcy said, his shoulders shifting as he continued to pound the bones, “And for your grandfather’s sake, too.”

The large bones were shattered one by one;

Old Darcy paused in his labor and pointed toward a platform diagonally ahead, where a row of urns in various styles was displayed.

“Bring one over.”

“Oh, right.”

Cullen walked over, cast a sweeping glance, and discovered that even the cheapest urn cost an astonishing one thousand lubis.

That was half a month's wages for an ordinary laborer.

Of course, there were far more expensive ones; Cullen spotted an exquisite, stately urn priced at fifty thousand lubis;

However, it was coated in a thick layer of dust, evidently a long-standing prop on this stage.

After all, many who came for cremation did so—aside from religious convictions—precisely because it was cheaper than a proper burial, so this fifty-thousand-lubi urn was destined to remain static.

Cullen scooped up the one-thousand-lubi urn and brought it before Old Darcy.

“Um, I’ll have my uncle bring you the money for this.”

Old Darcy chuckled, waved his hand, and declared with grand generosity, “No need.”

“How could I possibly accept that? It is one thousand lubis.”

“Cost price is fifty; wholesale is even cheaper.”

“...” Cullen stood speechless.

Fuck,