The lights went out

The basement,

his aunt's workshop.

Mary held a cigarette between her fingers, letting it burn slowly.

Uncle Mason stood in the doorway, gripping the back of his son Lunt's neck.

Lunt was crying, repeating over and over:

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

Uncle Mason, usually so even-tempered, wore a grim expression.

At last, seemingly unable to bear the noise any longer, Aunt Mary spoke:

"Go wash up. Don't disturb the little girl's rest."

Lunt had skipped school to join a march organized by Delis, the young environmental activist from Vien. They had stormed the power plant, causing a widespread blackout in the eastern district. The outage had caused something to go wrong during the little girl's surgery;

now, she lay here.

In truth, Lunt had not really committed any offense. Even if they dragged him to the police station, the officers would probably just smile.

Life was full of accidents.

Perhaps the little girl's surgery would have failed anyway? After all, it had carried considerable risks.

What if Hans Hospital's backup generator had worked properly and restored power in time? Wouldn't that have prevented the outage from affecting the surgery?

Besides, Lunt had only held a sign outside the power plant and chanted along with the others. Or, to put it another way, he had merely been following his idol. He had not broken into the power plant to vandalize it;

but some excuses could deceive a judge without deceiving oneself.

Kallen had told them what had happened that day;

he could not hide it, not merely because of the injuries on his face, but because hiding it would leave him unable to ask the family to discount the girl's funeral expenses.

He was only a working member of the family, entitled to a share of the profits but not to make decisions.

After hearing what had happened, Uncle Mason had pulled down Lunt's trousers and whipped his backside with a belt.

Upon learning that his actions that day had cost the life of a girl several years younger than himself, Lunt had only cried as he was beaten. He had neither cried out in pain nor begged for mercy.

After the beating,

Uncle Mason had brought Lunt before the little girl to "apologize."

To an outsider, this would have looked foolish, so contrived it seemed like putting on a show;

but what sort of show took place at home, with only one's own family watching?

At its heart, the Immerlis Family had always raised its children well.

Lunt limped upstairs. Mina met him at the ramp and wiped his face with a warm towel.

"Mina... I was wrong..."

"Ah."

Mina did not know how to comfort her younger brother. Especially with the little girl's body lying downstairs, she could not bring herself to offer any words of consolation.

"What about the fees?" Uncle Mason asked his wife.

"Her family requested Package B," Aunt Mary said.

Ron had already pointed at their car and said this would be a lucrative job.

Normally, a Package B order would put a spring in Aunt Mary's step. Tonight, however, she could not feel happy.

Aunt Mary stubbed out her cigarette and continued:

"I discussed it with Winnie. We'll follow Package B's standards, but give them a substantial discount when we quote the price tomorrow."

"Oh." Uncle Mason nodded. "That's all?"

Aunt Mary brushed back her hair and sighed. "Let's make no profit on this one. Lose a little money, even."

"All right."

Uncle Mason's expression finally relaxed.

Making money on this job would leave him feeling miserable. Better to lose a little; at least that would ease his conscience somewhat.

"I'll go upstairs and call those companies."

Funeral supplies with special requirements, such as coffins, had to be ordered separately. The Immerlis Family kept some standard stock on hand, but could not possibly stock everything. After all, they were more like customers of the upstream suppliers than distributors.

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

With that, Aunt Mary waved her husband away, telling him to get out of her sight. She was upset.

"All right." Uncle Mason left.

Aunt Mary began cleaning the little girl's body herself, her movements very gentle.

Once she had finished, Aunt Mary dressed her in a set of underwear, then pulled over a round stool and sat beside the table, massaging the little girl's head with her hands.

In truth, most funeral rites and procedures were meant for the living, including the massage Aunt Mary was giving her now. The little girl was gone and could certainly no longer feel it;

the girl was receiving the massage, but it was Aunt Mary's heart that was being soothed.

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

Once she had completed the routine, Aunt Mary began embalming the little girl, so that on the day of the funeral, she could look her most natural and beautiful as she said goodbye to her loved ones.

A mortuary cosmetologist's role was to preserve the deceased's dignity and grace as they departed.

Another was to allow the deceased's family and friends to take a good look and remember their appearance.

When people thought of someone else, what surfaced in their minds was often a frozen "photograph";

why did people place such importance on "seeing someone one last time," and consider missing that chance such a profound regret?

Because in everyday life, people rarely took the time to truly look at and remember the faces of those around them. Often, the closer someone was, the more easily this was neglected. They always naively assumed there was plenty of time, so very much time;

only when that sudden farewell arrived did they realize that the face in their mind, that mental "photograph," had long since become outdated, indistinct, and blurred.

The terror lay not in the loss, but in being unable to forgive yourself for having already forgotten when you needed to remember.

Aunt Mary's work was to prevent that regret as much as possible.

She had no intention of resting, nor would she allow herself to. She intended to spend the rest of the night completing everything for the little girl;

besides, it had been a long time since she had worked with such care and dedication.

At three in the morning, Kallen, who had slept and woken again, carried a coffeepot down to the basement and brought Aunt Mary some coffee.

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

Kallen pulled over another nearby round stool and sat down.

The little girl lying on the cold steel table was now dressed in a lovely pink dance dress. On her feet were new white dance shoes.

"Her parents left these. They'd planned to give them to her as a present after her surgery succeeded."

"Oh, really?"

Aunt Mary began tending to the little girl's hair with a flat iron, working carefully, as though afraid of burning her scalp.

This was the same Aunt Mary who used a gas blowtorch to remove other clients' body hair.

This time, however, she was painstakingly cautious.

"Is she pretty?" Aunt Mary asked.

Kallen nodded. "She's a very lovely little girl."

"Her parents said she loved ballet and practiced very hard."

"Really? That couldn't have been easy."

"No, it couldn't."

Aunt Mary looked up at Kallen and asked, "The injuries on your face?"

"They're fine." Kallen shook his head.

"I forgot. I should have treated them for you first."

"It's all right. They're wounds from life. They're inevitable."

As Aunt Mary continued ironing the little girl's hair, she mulled over those words:

"Wounds from life. Kallen, sometimes I really do wonder, are you truly only fifteen? Or can a serious illness really change someone so much?"

"I should be almost sixteen."

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

"It's not a milestone birthday. There's no need."

"In life, if circumstances allow it, you should avoid settling for less whenever you can. Otherwise, how could you do justice to those wounds from life?"

Kallen nodded. "All right, Aunt Mary."

The job they had taken that day had been an accident.

Even if Uncle Mason had gone to Hans Hospital instead of Kallen, it would probably have been unavoidable.

That was life. Even beneath a tranquil stream, jagged rocks lay hidden.

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

"I've already slept."

"You must have something on your mind. I could tell when you came back. Lunt made a mistake, and your uncle has already punished him."

"I know."

His uncle had beaten Lunt on the second floor, but Kallen had heard it clearly from the third.

Still, Kallen said, "Actually, Lunt didn't really do anything wrong."

Had she been an unreasonable mother who blindly defended her child, hearing Kallen say that would probably have made her explode with anger;

So you told on him, he got beaten, and now you say he didn't really do anything wrong?

But Aunt Mary nodded and said:

"Yes. He just needed a beating."

Without one, he would feel awful himself, and his elders, his guardians, would feel worse.

Blindly following the crowd was sometimes no great offense, because the law could not punish everyone. But without remorse or reflection, one would probably follow blindly again next time. It still might not be an offense, but it made one look like an idiot.

"I'll discount the funeral fees. We'll do this job at a loss."

"Thank you, Aunt Mary."

"I'm Lunt's mother. It's what I should do. If I could, I'd really like to take Lunt and your uncle with me and kneel before the little girl's parents.

"But that wouldn't mean anything. Apart from easing our own guilt a little, it would do absolutely nothing for her parents.

"They might even have to swallow their disgust and comfort us.

"Ah,

"it's like snow falling outside. Watching through a window from inside the house, you think, oh, look at all those snowflakes drifting down;

"only when you step outside and a snowflake slips down your neck, making you shiver, do you understand the true cold."

"Aunt Mary."

"Yes? What is it?"

"I thought I should already be used to bodies, coffins, wreaths, black mourning cloth, and all these things.

"But I don't know why this time has affected me so deeply.

"It's not just because of Lunt,

"but because of what I felt in the hospital corridor today."

Kallen still remembered how the little girl had smiled shyly at him as she was wheeled past him into the operating room.

Suddenly, he felt

that perhaps he had been a little melodramatic today. No, far too melodramatic.

He had already seen things much stranger, more bizarre, and more horrifying, yet today, of all days, he had been overcome with sorrow.

"What, does working in our profession really make us stonehearted? Cold-blooded?"

"That isn't what I meant."

"I know. But it's like painters, who have to keep painting and creating every day. What they seek is a work that satisfies them and moves them, too. Who would think painting too many pictures made a painter numb, stripped them of their inspiration, and left them unable to be moved?"

Having finished ironing the girl's hair,

Aunt Mary set down the flat iron and lit herself a cigarette. When she offered Kallen the pack, he shook his head.

She exhaled a smoke ring.

"We're only used to seeing dead people. That doesn't mean we're used to life and death."

Standing up, Aunt Mary pointed with her cigarette-free hand at the beautifully prepared little girl before her:

"What a pretty little girl, and what a pretty dress. She's lying right here. If only she could sit up and dance one more time. How wonderful that would be."

Kallen fell silent.

Aunt Mary walked over to Kallen and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Try to take it in stride. You need to learn to manage your own feelings, understand? Just as you do when you give other people psychological counseling. You should know more about that than I do."

"I understand, Aunt Mary."

"Would you like a late-night snack?"

"Yes, Aunt Mary."

"All right, I'll prepare something. Remember to turn off the lights when you come upstairs."

With that, Aunt Mary left the workshop.

Kallen remained on the round stool, gazing at the little girl, whom his aunt had made so lovely.

A little while later,

Kallen stood up, walked over to the gramophone, and pressed its switch;

the cheerful melody of "Rojia Sprite" began playing, filling the workshop.

His aunt's parting words echoed in Kallen's ears: "What a pretty little girl, and what a pretty dress. She's lying right here. If only she could sit up and dance one more time. How wonderful that would be."

If

you want to dance,

I can help you.

Kallen walked up to the little girl and extended his left hand.

This was his first deliberate attempt to use his ability. He had not actually mastered it yet. Every previous use had been either accidental or sudden; he had never once used it in a calm state of mind.

But the moment he reached out,

Kallen inexplicably had a feeling,

He seemed able to sense 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 feel her warmth, even though she had long since gone cold;

this did not feel like an illusion, but a falsehood so complete it felt utterly real.

I am lucky.

I had already died, yet because of Dis, I woke again.

But you...

You were not as lucky as I was.

Please tell me,

is what I sense real?

Are you calling out to me, or is this merely my own wishful thinking?

Do you remember?

In the hallway,

you smiled at me twice.

Kallen pressed his fingers against the little girl's neck.

If you want to dance one last time, I will grant that wish.

Kallen closed his eyes,

then,

slowly opened them again.

He saw a little girl standing before him.

The little girl was still looking at him with a shy smile.

What Kallen failed to notice was that, beneath his feet, black, vine-like patterns were slowly spreading outward, gradually conforming to and seeping into the grain of the workshop's floor tiles.

Meanwhile, on the third floor,

on the windowsill,

Puer, who had already fallen asleep, suddenly raised her head, astonishment crossing her face:

"Dis?"

A moment later, the shock on the black cat's face deepened:

"It's not Dis!!!"

Inside the study,

Dis suddenly stopped writing by candlelight;

he watched the flickering flame before him

and murmured:

"Order?"

Then,

he reached out and held the candle flame still,

saying:

"No, it is Order."

This time,

Kallen neither stepped back nor shifted his perspective to zoom in or out and bring things into focus;

instead, he held out his hand quite naturally.

The little girl smiled faintly, biting her lower lip with her pearly teeth. She was a little shy, but in the end, she could not resist placing her hand in Kallen's palm.

Her hand had neither weight nor warmth, yet it felt so real.

Kallen gestured that she could return to her body... her remains.

The little girl floated up, lay flat in the air before Kallen, then slowly descended until she merged with her remains.

The adorable little sprite lying on the steel slab opened her eyes.

There was no whiteness, no blood-red tint, no savagery-only clarity and peace.

She slowly sat up.

She remembered Kallen,

because he was the stranger who had left an impression on her as she was wheeled toward the operating room.

She said:

"You're really handsome, mister."

"Heh."

At those words, Kallen laughed and instinctively reached out to pat her head, the way he usually did with his younger sister Mina.

But then he remembered that Aunt Mary had just done her hair, and hesitated;

the little girl, however, moved her head beneath Kallen's palm and nuzzled against it:

"Daddy really likes patting my head like this, too."

"Oh, does he?"

It's a shame your parents can't be here to see you sit up again.

It was not that Kallen deliberately wanted to hide anything-at least, secrecy was not the reason;

rather, letting her parents see their daughter sit up, only to watch her inevitably lie back down, would make them endure the pain of losing her a second time.

"'Rojia Sprite'-I really like dancing to it when I practice.

Can I dance for you, mister?"

"Of course."

Kallen sat back down on the round stool.

The adorable little girl, wearing brand-new white dance shoes and a pink dance dress, her makeup carefully applied, began dancing to the melody.

Her dancing could not be called perfect. Even an amateur like Kallen could see her inexperience and a few flaws, but she danced earnestly, with all her heart.

This was not truly her; the real girl was already dead.

Yet this was truly her, too. The two were exactly alike.

Kallen watched with undivided attention,

and she lost herself in the dance;

time seemed to enter a kind of eternity, but cruelly, eternity was often merely a prelude to something fleeting.

At last,

the music ended,

the dance ended,

and she took her bow.

Kallen felt as though he had been having a vivid dream. When he looked up in a daze, he realized that, after taking her bow, the little girl had already lain back down on the steel bed of her own accord, considerate and well-behaved to the very end.

Her slightly tousled hair, faintly soiled white shoes, and the little creases in her dance dress told the story of what had just happened.

Kallen began to applaud;

then,

he stood up,

walked to the workshop door,

reached out,

and touched the switch.

He hesitated for a moment,

but in the end,

Click.

The lights went out.