The kitchen isn’t too interesting. Small, but functional. No dishwasher and only a small table with four mismatched chairs.
I open the door into the only bedroom and find more slate paintings and vivid furnishings. The bed is neatly made, but again, completely covered in dust. Like someone left expecting to come back, but never actually returned. That thought presses on my chest, creating a sad spot solely filled by the uncle I never got to know.
I move to the small window and look down at the sprawling backyard. It must have been beautiful once, but it’s severely overgrown now.
So much potential packed into one building, and it’s all mine.
“I can work with this,” I say quietly, a smile sliding across my face as possibilities run rampant through my mind.
The building creaks softly in agreement.
Two weeks later
If I see another speck of dust, I’m going to check myself into a mental institution.
For the most part, everything except for the mortuary and crematorium is done. I haven’t had the mental strength to tackle those yet.
The rest of the house, though, looks great.
I stand in the hallway with a rag over my shoulder and a smudge of paint on my jaw, taking in the beauty that all of my hard work has revealed. The citrus scent from the wood polish has completely eliminated the stale atmosphere, replacing it with a clean and lived-in feel. The office has new lighting, fewer spiderwebs, and a digital filing system.
Upstairs is livable. Not perfect, but all mine. I left my uncle's décor alone, but gave everything a good scrub.
The door to the mortuary creaks, as if the house is taunting me with more work. I can admit, I’m nervous about taking on this space. If any of the equipment needs repairs, it’ll have to come out of my pocket, and that’s not something I can afford right now.
Taking a deep, bracing breath, I push the door open.
The room greets me with a sterile coolness. It’s cleaner than I expected. I mean, yeah, everything is coated in a layer of dust, but otherwise, it's not too bad. I run my hand along the prep table as the fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead. There’s one more door at the back of the prep room. It's heavy and metal with a small, cloudy window.
The crematorium.
Before I can think too much about it, I swing the door open, ripping the metaphorical band-aid off.
It’s dirty as hell in here, everything covered in a thick layer of soot. It almost seems like the walls are painted black. I rub the black gunk off the control panel that’s right on the inside, checking to see if it’s on or even connected to power.
I’m leaning closer, my nose almost touching the panel, when something moves behind me. My entire body locks up, and I turn stiffly, bracing myself for what I might find. It’s probablyjust a rat or some other small creature. Maybe a raccoon or a possum. Gods, I hate rodents.
Please don’t be a rat.
Please don’t be a rat.
Please don’t be a rat.
Holy shit.
Well, it’s definitely not a fucking rat.
On the opposite side of the room, sitting against the wall, is a small child. His feet are bare, and he’s wrapped in an adult-sized t-shirt. His dark hair is curling wildly around his head, and his round cheeks practically demand that old ladies pinch and gush over his adorableness. He’s sitting cross-legged with a perfectly straight back, his hands resting on his knees like he’s meditating.
It looks as if he tried to wipe the ash from his face and hands at one point, but he didn’t do a great job. Dark tan skin shows through the streaks of ash covering him.
I gasp when he opens his eyes.
Those are not the eyes of a toddler. I mean, obviously, they are, because heisa toddler, but his eyes don’t match how he looks. They are ancient with knowledge and profound irritation, golden and filled with mysterious light.
“Thank the gods,” the small child says in a high-pitched voice too articulate for someone shaped like a stuffed animal. “You finally opened the fucking door.”
Chapter Two
