Page 1

Chapter one

Levana

Three bodies.

Two adults, one child.

The adults will be easy—routine, textbook. The kind of work my hands could do without thinking.

But the child… children are different.

Their skin bruises like fruit, their arteries collapse if you breathe too hard. There’s no room for error. No rushing. One wrong move and their features sink, their eyes cave, and no amount of makeup will help give off the illusion they’re just sleeping.

I work on people of all ages, but infants and babies are my speciality. It’s the part of the job most want to avoid—too delicate, too painful. But I trained for this. Chose it. From the start, I knew I wanted to care for the youngest. There’s no comfort in dressing tiny bodies in delicate gowns and tucking them into satin-lined caskets—but someone has to do it. And I wanted that someone to be me.

I didn’t grow up dreaming of this work. At twenty-four, I was stuck in sales, drowning in spreadsheets, and pretending to care about quarterly targets.

Then Violet happened, and I couldn’t go back to that life.

I needed something quieter. Work that didn’t feel hollow. I started training not long after, and for the first time, everything clicked. I could help. I could offer families even a sliver of comfort when the unbearable was threatening to drown them.

Five years later, I’m working with the dead every day, and honestly, I love it.

The autoclave buzzes for a second like it might explode. It’s been chewing on screws for weeks now, rattling like a broken fan. I should remind Gordon it needs fixing. Again. Not that it’ll help. He’s been running the funeral home longer than I’ve been alive, and he’s the type who thinks anything that isn’t actively on fire can’t be that urgent.

“Just hold it together,” I mumble, glaring at it like that might help.

The door swings open a second later, and I spot Elliot strolling into the break room, all bright eyes and easy smiles. The autumn wind’s tousled his dark curls, and his cheeks are the faintest shade of pink.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, reaching for the radio dial without even glancing at me. The volume jumps and music blares into the space.

“Would you turn that down?” I say, sticking my head out of the embalming room.

“Uh, why?” He grins at me. “They don’t care.”

“I know they don’t,” I snap back. “But it’s disrespectful. Come on.”

He laughs under his breath but turns the volume down a few notches.

“You’re so weird,” he says, hanging his coat on the rack by the door and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Yeah. But it matters,” I argue, dragging my gloves off and tossing them into the bin. “I mean, think about it—somebody’s mom, dad, kid… they’re still a person. Doesn’t feel right cranking up the radio like it’s a party.”

He crosses his arms, still smiling. “It’s music. Music’s nice.”

I sigh, but let it go. I always let it go with Elliot.

We’ve worked together for two years now. He started here as a mortuary assistant, and he was a mess. In his first week, he gagged eighteen times—I counted. And the first time a body shifted on the table, he practically hit the ceiling. I caught him whispering “Nope, nope, nope” under his breath as he tried to steady his hands over a drainage tube.

I was convinced he’d quit.

But he didn’t. And I’m glad. Now, he’s my best friend. One of the only people I can stand for more than five minutes. He’s easy enough to be around, if not a little annoying sometimes, but he’s a good guy, and I love the bones of him.

“What’s the lineup today?” He asks.

I run through the names and ages.

“You’re good without me for an hour, right? I’ve gotta go help Gordon with the fluid shipments.”

“I’ve got it,” I say with a smile.

When his footsteps have faded down the hall and disappeared, I twist my hair into a low knot, secure the ties of my gown, slide on a fresh pair of gloves, then fasten my mask.

I reach for my face shield, the clear plastic catching the flicker of the buzzing fluorescent lights, and let the sharp, sterile scent filling the air soak into my lungs. It’s the kind that seeps into my clothes, settles in my hair, and always lingers long after I leave. The kind I’ve grown to see as a strange sort of comfort over the years.

I take a deep breath and smile down at the body of the little girl on the embalming table before me.

“Okay, sweetheart,” I murmur softly, brushing a damp curl from her forehead. “Let’s get you all fixed up, huh?”

I glide a disinfectant soaked sponge from her shoulder to her wrist, washing away the residue of death from her skin. Plastic caps are tucked beneath her eyelids to hold their shape. A curved needle slips through her gums, thread pulling tight until her tiny little lips sit neatly closed.

The arterial tube slides into the carotid artery with a gentle press. Embalming fluid follows, pushing through the vessels, swelling the flesh back into shape as dark, syrupy blood drains into the metal basin below.

The trocar pierces her abdomen, suctioning out gas and moisture, cavity by cavity, before preservative liquid is pumped in to keep the internal organs from breaking down.

Veins are stitched. Incisions are sutured closed. Oils are massaged into her face, her feet, her hands. Cosmetics follow, softening the tiny bruises and pinking up her lips and cheeks.

By the time I’m finished, the prep room feels colder and my nerves are shot to shit.

Her precious little body lies still on the table, swaddled in soft fabric. Her skin is smooth now, the bluish tinge faded beneath the powder. I spent too long on her, but I couldn’t stop fussing over the tiny creases in her fingers and the delicate curls at her temples. I kept picturing her parents standing over her, trying to memorise every single detail. I wanted her to look perfect for them.

I blow out a long, shaky breath. Just because I chose to specialise in embalming children doesn’t mean it’s easy. It never is.

I need air.

The wooden chip flooring and fallen leaves crunch beneath my boots as I enter the memorial garden. It’s empty as usual. Just rows of memorial plaques and ornaments nestled between tufts of lavender and late blooming roses.

I drop onto one of the benches and fish out a cigarette from the carton in my pocket, fingers stiff as I flick the lighter. The wind almost snatches the flame away before I manage to light it.

It’s a stupid habit—one I picked up after Violet. At first, it was just something to do with my hands. Something to fill the gaps when I couldn’t sleep or think, or do much of anything except sit and stare at the wall. Turns out, it stuck.

I lean back, letting the smoke sear through my lungs as my eyes drift over the names on the plaques, each one a life reduced to brass and dates.

The wooden chips crunch, and I glance up to see a man taking a seat right next to me. He folds his hands loosely in his lap, and his breath fogs faintly in the air as he exhales.

I shift slightly away from him, turning my shoulder so the smoke doesn’t drift his way.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits there, a little too close.

He could have chosen the bench further down the path, but he had to choose this one.

The silence stretches and I glance at him from the corner of my eye, but he’s staring straight ahead.

“Do you have someone’s memorial here?” He asks quietly.

“Uh, not here. No,” I say, playing with the cigarette between my fingers. “I work here.”

He turns his head slightly. I feel the words building behind my teeth. Should I ask? I’m fine with death, but I hate this part. The awkward pause, the unspoken question. People come to places like this for one reason, and it’s never a good one. If I ask, I risk stepping into something raw—peeling back a layer he might not want to show.

But if I don’t… that’s pretending not to see the weight someone’s carrying right in front of you.

Shit. I have to suck it up and return the question.

“Do you have someone’s memorial here?”

“My son,” he says.

I nod slowly. “That’s hard. I’m sorry.”

“It is.”

“How old?” I ask.

“Seven,” he says, his voice quieter now.

My ribs pinch.

Seven.

Christ. That’s so young.

Did I work on him? Did my hands touch his son’s skin, guide a trocar beneath his ribs, cradle his head for the final time?

Did I help with the funeral?

No. Now isn’t the time. Now isn’t the time to picture scalpels, sutures, and cold limbs.

Not while the father’s sitting right there.

I grit my teeth and try to shake the thought loose.

“I’m sorry life brought you here,” I say.

I catch his nod from my periphery as I take one last drag from my cigarette, and stub it out in the small metal trash can by the bench. I should get back inside soon. I have to bring up the next body from the cooler and go through the afternoon’s tasks with Elliot. He’s good at keeping things moving, but he’s still forgetful sometimes, too quick to get distracted when we’re up against the clock.

I’m about to stand when movement catches my eye—his hand, stretched out toward me.

I pause, blink, then turn to look at him properly.

His cheekbones catch the light, shadowing his face in a way that makes it hard not to stare. His blonde hair’s a mess, like he’s been combing his fingers through it all afternoon. Intense, hazel eyes flick up to mine, and for a moment, my lungs forget how to do their job. He has a strong, straight nose that gives him this clean, classic look that’s softened just a little by the thin wire glasses perched low on the bridge.

He’s older than me, not by much, early thirties, maybe? I’ve never seen him here before, I would’ve known if I had. Heat creeps its way up my neck and something flutters in my stomach.

Oh god. Stop it.

This man is here grieving his child and I’m ogling him like he’s the last piece of pie on the plate.

I take his hand. “I’m Levana.”

“Patrick.”

A thin, gold band on his ring finger glints in the light. It’s plain, a little worn, like he’s had it for years without ever taking it off.

“My wife. She’s… she’s gone.” He pauses, eyes flicking briefly to the floor. “I keep it on out of habit, I guess.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he adds quickly with a smile. “I know I’m laying it on a little thick for a first meeting.”

A smile of my own twitches at the corner of my mouth. It’s not a real one, not at all, just the kind of reflex you get when someone shows you their heart with a joke tied to it.

“No,” I manage. “It’s fine.”

It’s not though. Nothing about this is fine. His kid is dead. His wife is dead. And here I am, sitting in the cold smelling of formaldehyde and cigarette smoke, unable to offer him any semblance of comfort.

“I should get back inside,” I say, pushing myself up from the bench.

“Of course,” he says with a nod. “Think I’ll see you here again?”

I glance toward the building, then back at him with a small shrug. “As long as the paycheck keeps coming, I’ll be here.”

He huffs a small noise that isn’t quite a laugh, but close, and I take that as my cue to leave.

“Take care.” I say.

“You too.” He murmurs.

I make my way back inside, boots crunching over the cold bark.

When I glance back, he’s still sitting there, alone on the bench, hands resting loosely in his lap before he lifts two fingers in a quiet, almost uncertain wave.

I offer a small smile in return, then walk away.