“Yes,” Miss Geraldine gasps softly.
“Consistent personality retention,” Ember says with a confident nod.
“Ember,” I growl, my voice pitched low in warning.
He glances at me with a raised eyebrow, completely unbothered by my subtle reprimand.
Miss Geraldine leans over the basket, pressing her face gently into Mr. Pickles, or Great Aunt Mira’s fur. Her shouldersshake as she breathes them in like she’s trying to memorize something that is already gone.
“I know it sounds silly.”
“No,” I say automatically. “Not silly at all.”
Ember tilts his head at me, giving me a look so incredulous that I can physically feel it. I ignore him as best I can, and give Miss Geraldine’s grief my full attention. She strokes her hand through the cat’s fur, her fingers trembling. She smooths it over and over like she can keep them there if she pets it right.
“I just… I couldn’t let her go without doing this properly,” she whispers. “She deserved a real service. Not just… a shoebox in the backyard.”
My chest tightens because that’s it. That's the whole job. Letting people acknowledge their grief and celebrate the life of someone who meant something to them. It’s not my place to judge someone for what they feel.
“I promise,” I say gently, stepping a little closer, “it will be a proper service.”
Is it a little ridiculous?
Maybe.
But grief very rarely makes sense, and love doesn’t follow logic.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes shining with more unspent tears. She presses a thin hand to her chest and takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “If you’ll please excuse me for a moment, I need…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, but I understand anyway. She needs to build a wall to protect herself. She slips into the side parlor and closes the door behind her with a softCLICK.
Silence settles over the room, and I start counting.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five…
“That woman is deeply disturbed,” Ember whispers.
“She’s grieving, Ember,” I scold, smoothing my already perfectly pressed button-down.
“She believes her aunt came back as a cat named Mr. Pickles.”
“Many cultures believe in reincarnation,” I reply evenly. “You literally reincarnated this month.”
“That’s different. She cited bangs and an ugly couch as supporting evidence,” he argues.
I inhale slowly, trying my damnedest to keep myself professional and in control. It would not do Miss Geraldine any good to walk back in here to see me throttling a toddler. “This is my first funeral here,” I say, voice calm but edged with irritation. “We are not in the business of diagnosing clients. We are shepherds of grief.”
“She’s projecting her aunt onto an animal with poor impulse control.”
“Ember,” I say tiredly.
