My name is Lin Ye, the night watchman at the morgue.
In the year I graduated from medical school, I didn't get into the top three and was assigned to a funeral parlor.
On my first day of employment, my master threw me a yellowed rule book: At three o'clock in the morning, face your back to the door and don't look back.
I didn't take it seriously.
At three o'clock sharp, someone blew cool air on the back of my neck.
In the reflection of the stainless steel cabinet door, an old lady wearing a shroud lay on my back, saying that she had forgotten her dentures at home and she was hungry.
From that night on, a blood-red "Handbook of Folk Customs and Taboos" unfolded before my eyes.
You can see the rules, but every time you use them, the price is consumption of Yangshou.
Later I saw the big red sedan chair at the end of the corridor, the red coffin in the basement with my birth date engraved on it, and my name written on the land deed from the 19th year of the Republic of China.
Master said I have a hard life. The curator said this is called inheritance.
Only the woman in wedding dress and red hijab stood in the deepest part of the morgue and whispered to me:
"Master, I have been waiting for you for a hundred years."
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This story is purely fictitious. All characters, places, and events are fictitious settings. Please do not correspond to reality.
