My mother died young, and my father said that the funeral industry was a guaranteed job, so he forced me to take the funeral parlor job.
The year I passed the exam, he drank at home for three days and said with red eyes: "Son, our family will no longer be afraid of death."
As a result, after he said this, he was sent into my workshop by an out-of-control cement tanker truck.
I put on his makeup myself. It was my third year in the industry, I was twenty-three years old, and my skills were already more stable than those of my master.
Master said that I was born with hands that eat this bowl of rice - steady, accurate, and not trembling. When sorting out the remains of a dead person, I can be as calm as peeling an apple.
I didn't tell him, I just felt like there was a stranger lying there.
After three years of wearing makeup, I learned one thing long ago: don't mistake a corpse for a person. Once you start thinking about "what he was like when he was alive," you won't be able to take the knife.
So I was doing pretty well until I died suddenly while working overtime that day.
It's not accurate to say that I died suddenly. I collapsed in the embalming room at two o'clock in the morning. Next to them lay three corpses awaiting burial tomorrow. The temperature was controlled at four degrees, and the smell of formalin made people dizzy.
My last memory is of my phone falling to the ground and the screen lighting up, showing two thirty-seven in the morning.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a coffin.
The coffin is made of pure golden nanmu, lined with bright yellow satin, and embroidered with a five-clawed golden dragon. There is a long bright lamp above the head, and the dim light shines on the inner wall of the coffin, reflecting the densely packed Sanskrit characters.
I subconsciously touched my face - no, this skin is too tender, and all the nasolabial folds I had from staying up late in my previous life were gone.
