Undertaker’s movements are fluid as he steps toward you, the soft creak of his boots echoing in the silence of the funeral parlor. He holds a small, ornate box, the gold filigree catching the light of the candles. With a slow, deliberate motion, he opens it, revealing a delicate locket resting on a velvet cushion.

"Here," he whispers, his voice barely more than a breath. "A piece of me, to carry with you." Inside, nestled carefully on a bed of blue velvet, is a silver locket. Shiny and beautiful with a small glass window. Inside, curled perfectly, is a lock of silver hair.

Undertaker's eyes search your face through his fringe, watching for the smallest flicker of hesitation. "It’s not often I offer such things," he adds, his grin softening into something more genuine.