Years ago,
Mrs Clamont was holding the reports of the child who had just passed away. In her left hand was a tag which was supposed to be put on the arm of the child. This tag meant that the cremation of the child was scheduled for later that evening.
'Damn, why do I always get such unlucky jobs?' Mrs Clamont muttered as she walked past the corridor, which was dimly lit.
She felt a bit uncomfortable as she got closer and closer to the morgue. If not for the fact that no one was going to take this job off her hands, Mrs Clamont would have shifted it to someone else.
As her promotion was right around the corner, she dared not to make any trouble.
'I would rather not do this!'
Mrs Clamont paused when she heard a familiar agitated voice echoing through the corridor. She paused and looked behind her. However, there was no one behind her.
