At 3:17 in the morning, the smell of disinfectant suddenly turned sweet. Lin Mo was squatting in the corner of the cremation room to change his gloves. As soon as his fingertips touched the edge of the latex, the familiar smell of rusty disinfectant was infiltrated without warning by a hint of the sweetness of caramel macchiato. He raised his head suddenly, and the remaining heat of the cremator cast orange-red spots on the tile floor. The second hand of the quartz clock on the wall was stuck on the "3" scale, but it clearly made a "click" sound of gear friction - the battery of that clock should have been replaced last month, and it had been a mute clock for a long time.
"What the hell?" He cursed in a low voice and pulled the disposable gloves down to his wrists. As the youngest cremator in the city's funeral home, he should have been used to the strange things here: the refrigerated cabinets in the morgue occasionally buzzed by themselves, the mirror in the dressing room would reflect non-existent figures, and the intercom phone that always rang on time at midnight and was not answered.
But the flavor of the caramel macchiato is so damn out of place.
The phone in his trouser pocket vibrated, and the word "Sister Zhang" jumped on the screen. Lin Mo opened the answer button. Before he could speak, a sharp cry came from the other side: "Xiao Lin! Come on! My old man... He, he opened his eyes!"
Lin Mo's heart sank. Sister Zhang's husband was delivered just after one o'clock this morning. He had advanced liver cancer and he passed away peacefully. According to regulations, after receiving the body, it must be stored in a refrigerator and then cleaned and sorted out early tomorrow morning. It's three o'clock in the morning, and the temperature in the refrigerator is minus 18 degrees. Don't even open your eyes.
