Lending a Hand

"I'll handle it," the old man muttered, chewing on a piece of tender braised pork rib.

"Well, I'll have to trouble you, Dad. You're the only one I can rely on," Chandler replied, setting down his chopsticks and looking at his father with a mixture of gratitude and guilt.

"Just focus on your career, son. I'll support you however I can." The old man patted Chandler's shoulder, encouraging his son, whose eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

Once they finished their meal, Chandler cleaned up, washed the dishes, swept and mopped the floors, and tidied up the house. It was nearly 10 p.m. by the time he finally left.

The old man stayed in his seat on the sofa, watching television and snacking on the fruit Chandler had brought. His thoughts were full of his youngest child, the one he had always treated the worst yet who was the most devoted. He was determined to help his son, no matter what.

The next morning, he woke up at his usual 6 a.m., shaved, changed into clean clothes, carefully combed his thinning hair, and slung his small bag over his shoulder. He then sat down on the sofa, waiting to leave.

Mumbling to himself, a certain light flickered in his eyes, a glint of madness mixed with resolve that seemed almost manical as he continued to repeat, "I must help my son… I must help him…"

Finally, he heard other people moving about outside. Walking up, he unlocked the door and, with his key, locked it again from the outside.

On the staircase above, two elderly women, also early risers, were heading out to buy groceries. The old man looked up, greeting them as usual.

"Off to buy vegetables?"

"Yes, we are! Off for your morning exercise, Roland?"

"Yep, gotta keep moving! My son reminded me yesterday, told me I need to get more exercise…"

As they chatted, the old man locked the door behind him and stowed the key away.

Heading down the stairs, he missed a step, his ankle twisting sharply as he pitched forward. Instinctively, he reached for the handrail, but his grip missed, and he tumbled down the stairs. "Agh..."

By the time he rolled down to the next floor, he lay there, neck twisted, eyes wide open, his mouth twitching in what looked like a faint smile—a look of contentment, as if he'd finally achieved what he wanted.

The two elderly women, who had witnessed his fall, stood frozen in shock. One remained in a stupor, while the other let out a horrified scream.

"AAAHHH...."

"Help! Somebody help!"

———

Harry came out of the preparation room, rubbing his temples as he watched the tearful family members, whose eyes were red from crying. He had a splitting headache.

The family had been fussing for half an hour, complaining that the work done on the deceased wasn't satisfactory.

The funeral home specialist, who had taken only a day to restore the deceased to near perfection, had done such a meticulous job that Harry suspected some kind of magic was involved. Yet still, the family wasn't happy.

His patience was wearing thin, and he was close to snapping back, "Your loved one passed days ago, and none of you even knew. No wonder they're hard to restore."

He stepped into the crematorium, basking in its quiet atmosphere, and slowly felt his irritation dissipate.

Of all the departments, Harry was most familiar with the crematorium's routines. After a few days on the job and dealing with various families, he'd come to appreciate Old Jack's wisdom.

By the time families reached this stage, they were generally more cooperative. Here, clients, families, and even officials mellowed out. The drama, complaints, and difficult family members one often heard about were rarely seen here.

Clients wouldn't go berserk over minor issues, nor would they whip out their phones to record and complain over trivialities.

Sitting outside the cremation room, Harry listened to the distant sound of firecrackers playing over the speaker. He stood up and headed to the preparation room, intent on asking the lead technician for some pointers.

While he couldn't hope to learn her magic, he wanted to understand the process well enough to gauge the limits of restoration work. That way, if a family member asked, he wouldn't be left speechless.

As he arrived, he noticed a funeral shop owner standing near the preparation room, chatting with the mortuary technician, who was geared up in protective wear.

"This gentleman was an old neighbor of mine, from my hometown too. He tumbled down the stairs and broke a lot of bones, even his neck. It's up to you to make him look decent," the shop owner explained.

"Rest assured, I'll handle it," the technician replied, nodding before heading back inside and shutting the door with a decisive click.

The shop owner spotted Harry and promptly handed him a business card.

"You must be Harry. I've heard a lot about you. Name's Angela. If you ever need anything, feel free to give me a call."

Harry took the card, giving a polite smile in return.

Some funeral shops didn't just sell burial supplies—they offered full-service funeral planning, complete with high-end and basic packages so families could go through the process without hassle. Of course, it cost money, but the convenience was worth it.

The employees at Serenity Funeral Home were more than happy to work with these providers, saving both sides a lot of effort.

Noting Harry's lack of interest in small talk, Angela soon excused himself. Harry turned back toward the glass partition, peering into the preparation room.

On a stainless steel table lay the old man, his neck twisted over his shoulder. Although the skin was unbroken, the shape of the bones was visible under his skin. Blood stains marred his clothes, and some broken ribs had pierced the skin.

The lead technician, Sister Nene glanced up, saw Harry watching, and waved at him to leave, gesturing toward the door.

She had work to do.

Harry quickly reviewed the employee guidelines in his mind. The rules only prohibited entering the room when work was in progress, but didn't say anything about watching through the glass. After all, it was there for observation, especially for trainees.

Harry gave her a quick wave and left.

Once he was gone, Sister Nene took a calm breath and, with a swift movement, adjusted the old man's neck with a sharp crack, setting it back into place. With a few more expert maneuvers, she re-aligned his ribs.

She gently pressed on his throat, causing his mouth to open as a burst of air escaped, followed by a faint mist. She then smoothed her hand over his eyelids, closing them. His face, previously marked by pain and disfigurement, now looked peaceful.

Only then did she begin the meticulous process of cleaning his skin…

After an hour, she had restored him to about 70% of his original appearance. The final touches would have to wait, or else she'd have to redo them later if he stayed too long.

As the day ended, most employees left, leaving only Old Jack in the crematorium and the security guard at the main gate.

The entire Serenity Funeral Home fell silent, free from the city's noise and lights. Even the usual chirping of insects was absent.

The surrounding mountains loomed in the darkness like giant sentinels, casting massive shadows over the funeral home.

At 11 p.m., in his small office next to the crematorium, Old Jack sipped a little rice wine with some fried peanuts on the side.

Checking his watch, he poured a small amount of liquor into his glass, set it aflame, and downed it in one gulp. Grabbing his flashlight, he headed out for a round of inspections in the middle and rear yards, leaving out the main office area.

After making his rounds and finding everything in order, he returned to his office, took out his phone, and continued to sip his wine while watching videos.

Around 1 a.m., a faint creaking sound echoed from one of the VIP rooms in the central building.

The latch on a cold storage drawer began to tremble slightly as cold vapor condensed around it, forming a thin layer of moisture that lubricated the mechanism. Gradually, the shaking intensified.

Moments later, the handle lifted, and the drawer slowly slid open as the old man began inching his stiffened body out.

He was dressed in a dark blue burial robe, eyes barely open. He staggered forward, pushing open the glass door, and stumbled out of the VIP room.

His movements were sluggish, his gait unsteady as he shuffled toward the rear yard. The ribs that had been carefully set earlier cracked open again, fresh blood slowly oozing out.

In the security room, the guard was watching a drama on his tablet, but a faint movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Looking up at the monitor, he froze as he saw a stiff figure moving slowly across the screen.