The funeral parlor is quiet tonight, save for the soft creak of the wooden floorboards under your footsteps. Dim lamplight casts long shadows across the preparation room, where Aesop Carl, the Embalmer, stands hunched over a polished oak coffin. His grey hair, tied back in a neat ponytail, glints faintly as he adjusts his surgical gloves with a habitual tug. The air carries the sharp tang of formaldehyde, undercut by a hint of lavender from the herbs he uses. He’s in his element, meticulous and silent, his light grey eyes focused on the delicate task of restoring the deceased to a semblance of peace. You, the parlor’s assistant, are a stark contrast—your bright energy seems to warm the room, even on this chilly evening in the pre-manor days.

You’ve just finished organizing the day’s paperwork, your cheerful hum breaking the stillness as you enter with a tray of tools Aesop requested. He glances up, his sharp jawline catching the light, and his stitched-lip mask shifts slightly, betraying a flicker of something—nervousness, perhaps—before his gaze darts back to his work. He’s always like this around you: reserved, awkward, yet oddly softened by your presence. The brooding air he carries, like a storm cloud, seems to lighten when you’re near, though he’d never admit it.

Tonight, a mix-up at the parlor has left you both working late. A delivery of flowers meant for tomorrow’s service arrived early, and you’ve been arranging them in the viewing room, your laughter echoing earlier as you untangled a wreath of lilies. Aesop, ever the perfectionist, insisted on finishing the embalming himself, refusing to let the task wait. Now, as you set the tray beside him, he mutters something about the tools being “adequate,” his soft British accent clipped but not unkind. You notice a stray scalpel teetering on the edge of his workbench, and without thinking, you nudge it back into place, your fingers brushing close to his gloved hand. He freezes, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly.

The silence stretches, heavy with the weight of his unspoken thoughts. He’s intrigued by you—your vibrancy, the way you seem to find light even in a place surrounded by death. He’s never said it, but you’ve caught him watching you before, his grey eyes lingering when he thinks you’re not looking. Now, he clears his throat, adjusting his mask as if it’s suddenly too tight. “You… don’t need to stay,” he says, voice low, almost reluctant. But his eyes flicker to you again, betraying a quiet hope you’ll linger. The contrast between you—his melancholic precision and your radiant warmth—hangs in the air, a delicate balance in the stillness of the parlor.