A massive smile stretches across my face, making my cheeks ache. Ownership is a beautiful thing.
The odor of old ash, chemicals, and something metallic clings to the back of my throat and stifles the air. Cobwebs lace the corners of the ceiling in an elaborate haunted-house fashion. If a ghost drifted through to haunt me, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised.
I crack open the industrial-sized disinfectant and wince as the strong smell punches me directly in the sinuses.
“Shit, that’s strong,” I cough.
I start with the counters, wiping layer after layer of dust, watching my rag turn to a gross brown. When I finally tackle the floors, the mop water turns black in seconds. I dump and refill over a dozen times before it finally downgrades to something resembling weak coffee.
Progress.
The house creaks faintly while I work, the old wood settling under the steady rhythm of scrubbing and rinsing. The pipes tick a few times, showing appreciation at finally being taken care of the way they deserve.
“You are very welcome,” I tell it, like a very normal and sane person.
The crematorium is in similar shape, a cloud of ash lifting faintly under my shoes like disturbed snow. The retort sits against the far wall, coated in the same dull gray film that covered the mortuary. The control panel buttons stick when I try to turn it on.
I vacuum soot from the vents and scrub the viewing window until my shoulders ache. Old ash rises in dense clouds that cling stubbornly to my sleeves and hair. Every surface seems determined to hold onto its ashy misery.
Hours pass at a glacier’s pace.
Sweat slides down my spine despite the chill of the old building. The sharp aroma of disinfectant slowly overtakes the stale air. Little by little, the gray haze disappears, and the steel shines again. The floors lose their tacky drag beneath my boots. The room begins to look less like it's frozen in time and more like a functioning area.
When I finally reach the cremation chamber itself. A small drift of fine gray ash still sits in the tray. Ember’s last combustion. He said phoenix ash makes flowers more beautiful, and funeral homesdorequire flowers. There’s only one way to find out if he’s telling the truth or not.
I carefully sweep the ash into a small container and carry it outside.
The backyard is rough. I mean, at some point, it was clearly beautiful. The layout of the garden beds is still visible beneath the tangle of weeds. Stone borders mark out neat shapes that must have once held roses or lilies or some other beautiful flower.
If this works, I’ll uphold my uncle’s contract with Ember.
I choose the worst bed, a square patch full of brittle stems and stubborn weeds. The dirt is dry and compacted, but softens slightly once I start working it loose. I scatter the ash carefully, mixing it into the soil before taking a step back.
Nothing happens.
The garden doesn’t explode with flowers.
The dirt remains stubbornly dry.
Maybe it takes a while for the ash to kick in, like fertilizer.
Whatever. While I’m here, I might as well clean up a little. It’s probably going to take me most of the afternoon to get it knocked out.
I was right. By the time I finish cleaning up the garden area, the sun is beginning to set. The sky fades into brilliant pink and purple streaks across the horizon.
This is my favorite time of day. Everything feels quieter at sunset. Like the world is exhaling. Relaxing.
When I finally climb the stairs after locking up, exhaustion hits all at once. I step into the living room and freeze as I spot Ember asleep on the couch. He’s curled into the cushions with one small hand tucked under his cheek while his other hand hangs loosely over the side of the couch. The last light of sunset filters through the blinds, highlighting his messy black hair.
For someone with such a permanent resting bitch face, he looks adorable when he’s sleeping.
There’s warmth radiating faintly from him. It feels like the quiet heat of banked coals rather than the raging heat of a well-stoked fire.
Remembering something I’d read in the past about phoenixes liking warmth, I grab the quilt draped over the back of the couch and lay it gently over him. He sighs softly in his sleep and snuggles deeper into the blanket.
I rub a rough hand down my face, the fatigue finally settling in my bones. Hours of scrubbing and hauling, fighting several years of grime.
And he slept through all of it.
