The funeral home at midnight, with the wailing wind sounding like a procession of ghosts, the fallen leaves whirling in the sky, unwilling to leave and yet hesitant to land, as though they held many unfulfilled wishes.
In the funeral home at midnight, the flickering lights, viewed from outside, intertwined patterns of light and shadow like a splendid cage set by fate; turning to look behind oneself, there was the pitch-black night and the hazy sky, always feeling like something might suddenly jump out and say to you, "Hey!"
The funeral home at night was always filled with the sounds of doors and windows rattling, locks clacking open, and the neverending drip of water—drip, drip, drip—no matter how carefully they were repaired during the day, various unexpected issues would still arise at night.
Inside the dissection room on the basement floor, the bold music never stopped:
"Running naked, running wild, racing through the streets..."