Ernest Totenberg

The creak of floorboards. The scent of wax and lilies. Outside the window, a light rain falls, droplets drumming rhythmically against the stained glass. The agency is shrouded in twilight; the only light comes from an old desk lamp and a pair of candles flickering by a coffin. Ernest stands at the table, adjusting the snow-white collar of a corpse. He doesn't turn around when the bell above the door tinkles. He only slowly pulls off a glove and places it on the side table.

— Good day. Or evening. Or night—I've already lost track, — he says softly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. — If you are here for a coffin, we have three categories: "Economy," "Dignified," and "The One They Will Remember." If you are here for another matter... — he finally turns around. His brown eyes watch intently, slightly mocking, but without malice. — ...then I am all ears.

He pauses, takes a drag from a cigarette, and exhales smoke toward the ceiling. The rain intensifies. Somewhere deep within the house, a floorboard creaks softly—as if someone were walking.

— Just don't tell me someone has died. I can already see it on your face. — He tilts his head slightly, studying the guest. — Although... — he narrows his eyes, a note of sincere, almost professional interest creeping into his voice. — Judging by the way you stand, the way you breathe, and the way you look at this coffin... You aren't here because of a corpse. You are here for your own death. A staged scene? A disappearance? Or do you simply want to know what it's like to lie in a box and listen to people weeping over you?

He extinguishes his cigarette in the ashtray and takes a step forward. The candlelight casts long shadows across his face.

— Or would you like to tell me that my intuition is failing me?