The boy hung up the phone and went inside.
About ten minutes later, someone walked in bathed in the night, looking travel-weary and languid. He held a black umbrella in his hand, with a long, straight handle.
Inside his deep coffee-colored overcoat was a white hoodie; after glancing around, he walked toward the information desk.
"Hello."
His voice was low and deep—quite a nice tone.
The night shift worker, who had been playing with their phone, looked up at the sound.
"Could you tell me how to get to Spiritual Hall Number Two?"
It was only then that the worker saw the visitor's face clearly. Blinded momentarily by the light, she was stunned: "Go, go down the left corridor, it's the second to last room on the right."
She didn't have a vast vocabulary. All she knew was that this man was irresistibly charming, with strikingly handsome features that were intense yet refined.
He said, "Thank you."
The tone of his voice sounded casual and nonchalant, yet it wasn't lacking in politeness and gentlemanly manners.
Before she could take another glance, he had already walked away. The now-alert night shift worker picked up her phone and sent out a message to her best friend like a midnight warning bell: "Sis, a super handsome guy just came over and asked me for directions."
Her friend, an expert at throwing cold water: "Wake up, sis, that's an Alluring Ghost."
"..."
Down the left corridor, the second to last room on the right.
Wyatt Wright left his umbrella at the door and walked in: "Dad, Mom."
Charlotte Watson, who had been dozing off, suddenly snapped to attention and stood up from her chair: "Didn't I tell you not to come? It's so dangerous to drive at this time of night."
Charlotte Watson was quite a "princess"; it was rare for Wyatt to see her dressed so simply.
The deceased was an eighty-four-year-old elder who was a distant cousin of Wyatt's father, Khalil Wright. The old man had never married, and the kindly Khalil took it upon himself to handle the funeral arrangements, even bringing his wife and child late at night to keep vigil. At this moment, Khalil was nodding off, his head rocking to and fro.
Wyatt approached and lit an incense stick.
Charlotte warmly took her eldest son's arm, her round face a bit plump, not showing her age one bit: "Have you eaten dinner?"
"I have."
Charlotte kicked her younger son, who was absorbed in his phone: "What are you doing standing there? Go get your brother some late-night snacks."
Levi Wright: "..."
It was Wyatt who was adopted, after all.
Levi ruffled his hair and went off to buy some late-night food.
After sitting with his parents for an hour or so, Wyatt stepped out and found a place to sit in the hallway. He had just gotten off the plane an hour ago and had rushed over after dropping off his camera and luggage, feeling the sleepiness wash over him now.
He closed his eyes and soon, the voice-controlled light dimmed.
The mortuary kept the air conditioning very low to preserve and protect the bodies, so it was chillingly cold. Someone approached from afar with footsteps so light that even the voice-controlled light didn't turn on, casting a slender and delicate shadow on the ground.
It was a girl in a white protective coverall. As she came closer, she stopped and tilted her head. Her eyelashes fluttered, and a pair of pitch-black pupils gazed toward Wyatt, who was sitting in the chair.
She stood silently for a moment, bent down, raised a hand holding a lighter, and with a flick, a flame sparked to life. The eerie blue light illuminated her beautiful eyes, and his face—a shell she yearned to peel off and cherish.
She reached out her other hand, circled around the blue light, and moved toward his face.
In the funeral home, the Mourning Hall, the chill of the autumn wind, blue flames, a woman, and a cry from afar so faint it seemed almost non-existent... The middle-aged woman who had just left Spiritual Hall Number One shivered in fright, her lips pale and trembling: "Ghost, a ghost..."
The flame from the lighter went out.
Rae Bennett withdrew her gaze, turned around, and pressed her fingertip to her lips: "Shush." She stepped forward, took off the hood of the protective suit, removed her mask, revealing an innocuous fairy-like face, smiling sweetly, "It's not a ghost, oh, it's a fairy."
The witch had grown up, learned to behave, and turned into a fairy.
After she left, Wyatt in the chair opened his eyes with a depth of ink too complex to discern.
****
Wyatt Wright, pronounced the same as 'to shine'.
Don't be scared, haha, the style is very sweet, and it'll shift to a cute romance genre in the second chapter. There's not much narrative in the funeral home, and mortician content is written only when the plot demands, which is also scarce. This isn't a professional workplace novel, but one about love and romance. Additionally, even though it's a powerful female lead story, the male lead isn't weak.
I'm back serializing, are you still here?