My Days at the Funeral Home

By day, I cremate bodies, fill out forms, and persuade families to sign papers at the funeral home. At night, all I want is to clock out on time. But ever since I took over that old furnace, the strange incidents have become more and more absurd: every body that arrives comes with an unclaimed photograph; sometimes a second name appears on an urn; and though the security footage shows no one there, someone keeps signing my shift log for me. Old Yang says the thing a funeral home fears most isn’t a haunting. It’s “unfinished procedures.” To keep my job, I have no choice but to investigate what the dead never got the chance to say while they were alive, and grit my teeth as I send each “guest” safely on their way. Who knew the first name I’d uncover would be my own?