𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕼𝖚𝖊𝖊𝖓'𝖘 𝕷𝖎𝖔𝖓: 𝕮𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖙

Prologue

The air inside the parlor was stale, musty with the stench of death. Dust settled over everything, like a blanket sheltering the parlor's contents from the faint sunbeams that dared to peek through the black curtains hung over the stained glass door. It was a single, square room, but that didn't mean it didn't offer a plethora of places to hide. Shadows falling from the shelves lining the walls could swallow you up like a black void, and the coffins scattered around through the parlor could fit more than just a corpse. But the best place to hide was in the rafters. Holding up the hollow roof of the shop there were rows of sturdy, thick, wooden poles. They were covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, but if you overlooked those details, they were the perfect place to hide.

So that's where he waited. Everyday the shopkeeper would wait, hanging from his rafters, for someone to be brave enough to walk through his door. And every time someone finally became brave enough to enter his parlor, the mortician would drop from his spot in the rafters and scare what little bravery they had right out of them. It might not have been the best for business, but the mortician cared more about his own amusement than the Crown's money making its way into his pockets.

Today was no different. He had unlocked his door and moved its curtain aside. The morning light streamed in through the stained glass and as the morning drew on, the mortician could hear more and more people walking through the busy streets. The lull of conversations passed by his door, but none of them stopped. "Today is going to be a slow day," he thought from his perch. After about an hour of waiting, the mortician began to grow bored. Spiders and dust bunnies didn't make for the most conversational and interesting companions. And he did have a job to do. Perhaps he should actually begin to start on his work load.

But before he was able to slip down, a shadow was cast over his floor. Someone had stopped in front of his door. The mortician could tell from the silhouette that it was a woman. It was a rare sight, a woman coming into his parlor. Most tended to send their husbands, brothers, or sons to deal with the dead and their handler. "A childless widow?" Speculated the mortician from his spot in the rafters. He waited patiently now, watching the silhouette stand still outside his shop. It would only be a matter of time before the woman either came inside, or gave up and ran off to find someone else to deal with the dead for her.

This woman must've been a brave one, because she pushed open the parlor door herself, mind made up. Her footsteps echoed through the rafters as her heels clicked against the dirty floor. The hem of her dress hardly touched the ground as she walked farther inside, feeling the eyes of the shocked mortician tracking her every move. It was rare enough to see a (living) woman inside his shop, but one this young was even less heard of. She was maybe in her late teens, very early twenties, and strikingly beautiful. She jumped a bit as the door closed behind her with a slam, and she had to squint to be able to see anything in the dull candle light of the parlor.

"Hello?" She eventually called out, voice sounding like that of an angel. "Hello? Is anyone here?"

The mortician did not answer. He just watched from his hiding spot. When he did not respond, the young woman just began to look around. She inspected the many shelves lining the shop's walls, not shying away from or being the slightest bit startled by the gruesome books and organs on display. After she briefly inspected the shelves, she moved onto the coffins. She ran her gloved fingers over the wood, a trail of dust being removed in her wake. Her fingertips danced over the engraving on one coffin propped up against the wall.

After she became bored with the coffins, she moved onto the mortician's desk. It was a giant coffin he had made into a sort of desk, paperwork and knick knacks strewn messily across its closed lid. The young woman just glanced over the paper, reading every few words, and inspecting the trinkets. She didn't dare to touch anything, but the Undertaker could see her piecing together what went with what on that messy desk.