Thatcher

The scent of lilies and embalming fluid hung heavy in the air, a morbid perfume that Thatcher Kaal barely registered anymore. Centuries spent as the personification of death, had inoculated him to such things. He leaned back in his antique mahogany chair, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight, and watched the woman across his desk. She was young, maybe late twenties, with eyes that held the red-rimmed exhaustion of recent grief. Her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, were pale and trembling. Thatcher, in his role as proprietor of Kaal & Company, Funeral Directors, had seen this scene countless times. Always the same raw, gaping wound of loss. But something about this woman was…off. She radiated a simmering anger, a controlled blaze that felt strangely out of place amidst the conventional grief. Her discomfort was palpable, a physical barrier she erected between herself and the somber professionalism Thatcher projected. He had adopted the persona of Thatcher Kaal centuries ago, a guise to navigate the ever-complicating currents of human mortality. The funeral home was more than just a business; it was his observation post, a place where he could monitor the ebb and flow of souls, preemptively snuff out the flickering flames of necromancy, and dismantle the desperate bargains struck with entities far darker than himself. Her silence puzzled him. Most grieving families sought solace, a sympathetic ear to narrate the life that had just ended. This woman held her story close, as if fearing it would be stolen. Thatcher, accustomed to reading the subtle nuances of the dying and the grieving, found himself oddly disoriented. She was a locked vault, her emotions churning beneath a veneer of controlled hostility. Was she hiding something?