Page 20 of Eternal Ember


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“That’s so sad.”

He hums, and I’m not sure if he’s agreeing or not.

“When I eventually find my mate, I’ll return to our lives with full intact memories so I don’t fret too much over what I’ve lost.” He gives me a studying look when he says that, like I should be paying closer attention to what he’s saying, but I’m tired and achy and coffee.

I take another sip.

“What were you last time?”

“A chef,” he says curtly.

“You were achef?” I choke out.

“Mhm.”

“And you’ve been making me cook for you this entire time?”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck, dude?” I slam my mug down, mourning the coffee that sloshed over the rim.

“I don’t retain skills or memories, only small bits and pieces of information.” He takes another calm sip of coffee and turns to the next page of his paper.

I fucking hate him.

By the end of the week, I’m starting to think inheriting this funeral home might have been a curse. Not because of the bodies or the grieving families. I can handle that.

The problem… is the phoenix.

Monday

After the success of Great Aunt Mira’s funeral, Ember decided we needed a “brand identity”.

He showed up in the office with a whiteboard I do not remember owning or buying, and strongly suspect the house provided.

He wrote in bold, aggressive letters:

MERCH

Then underlined it twice.

“We should get candles,” he says, pacing like he’s Steve Jobs dropping the new iPhone on the world. “Large ones with dramatic names likeEternalWhisperorSubtleGrief.”

“We are not monetizing our clients' grief.”

“Custom mugs, apparel, scented oils. Possibly a signature blend of tea…”

“This is a funeral home. No one wants merchandise from us.”

It’s like I’m not even speaking, the way he ignores me and keeps spouting new ideas as they come to him. By the end of the day, he’d designed t-shirts, coffee mugs, and a loyalty card system.

“Punch five and the sixth cremation is free,” he says proudly.

Obviously, I have to veto the loyalty program, but I decide the mugs aren’t a terrible idea.

Tuesday

Ember discovers the attic, which might, objectively, be the worst thing that happened this week.