Gap Society 2 Fragment 1

The good thing about this job is that the relationship with the clients is distant. I don't mean the funeral home that is our business partner. My relationship with them is very troublesome, and since we are completely subcontractors, I have to be careful. However, with the bereaved families, who are the people I have to be most careful with, the rule is that it is just for that day, just for that occasion.
That is, well, natural, and since it is not a happy story at all, it is not good to meet them too many times. Even so, there are times when I have to bow my head to a chief mourner I met just a little while ago.

That said, not everything about a funeral is gloomy. People who don't know seem to think that funeral work is a painful and sad job, but it's not quite like that.
In particular, the funeral of a grandmother who lived a long life past the age of ninety becomes more than just peaceful; it becomes something like a party, which is interesting. I suppose that is not wrong in the sense of a new departure.
What is painful is when people die young; if a man in his prime, over forty, dies, his mother or his spouse, first and foremost, is filled with regret.
Could I have done more? What was I lacking? When asked that, I am at a loss for words. I have no son and no husband, so I don't know how to answer. I have no choice but to say something harmless to get through it, but of course, the other person is probably not looking for an answer.
Even so, when it is too painful, I cannot answer anything, and yet, as an unrelated person, I cannot shed tears, so I have no choice but to feel the words and my own helplessness.
My own experience is not very meaningful. Even if I have lost someone important, first of all, I am a different person from the other person, and that person was also a different person, and they had built a life and relationship that I didn't know until yesterday, so I hesitate to say, "I understand."
That much, at least, I understand. That there are times when one might impulsively push back, saying, "There's no way you could understand."

What is even more painful and sad is traffic accidents, where there is a perpetrator, and because one can vent one's resentment, it was an unpleasant scene. I know I shouldn't say it's unpleasant, but in fact, it feels ominous.
Before mourning the death, a cursed atmosphere covers the area. In the edges of the bereaved family's words, a dark feeling that cannot be suppressed by regret alone inevitably drifts.
It was at such a scene that Mizore noticed "it."

At first, she thought she was just tired.
Even though she worked in a job close to death, the reason she didn't think of evil spirits or ghosts was, in a sense, because she was doing this job. It is true that she sometimes feels a presence, as if someone invisible, for example, a family member or friend who died long ago, has come to quietly check on things. Even so, she and the other employees didn't make a fuss about it, and because of that, she didn't start seeing things or become close to psychic phenomena. It was the opposite.
Above all, in a funeral home, the grateful words of some sect or other are played almost every day. In that state, nothing is going to appear. Rather, there is a serenity close to that of a shrine or temple. It's not like that at home, but even so, there is a more important fact than anything else.
Human death is not such an unreliable, helpless, faint thing. At the stage we are involved in, especially so. Death is vivid and lies right in front of us. Although it is indescribable, it is still there with a great texture.
Because she understands that weight, the idea of psychic phenomena seems frivolous and detached from the reality of Mizore and the others.
That is why she thought her brain had gone crazy from lack of sleep.

It slithered out from the pillow of the deceased lying there just like smoke. At first, Mizore, thinking something had come out of the ear canal, reached for a bundle of cotton.
Once the cycle of life ends, bodily fluids inevitably leak out from here and there. If they have used up their life until they are thin and have a long life, they can surprisingly go to the crematorium while still clean, but if not, care is needed here and there. In place of them, who can no longer stop anything, this job is to cleanse their surroundings, apply care so it cannot be seen, and arrange them into a peaceful sleeping face.
Those who have been in accidents often have invisible wounds. Changes in the body are likely to occur, and bleeding or damage somewhere could appear in an unexpected way. The bereaved family, whose feelings are already on edge, should not have to go through any more pain.
That's what she thought, but she was wrong.

"It" was wavering in shape. It looked pitch black, like clotted blood. Nevertheless, if you looked closely, it was transparent. If it were something flowing out, it should have left some kind of mark on the pillow or futon, but both remained white and clean.
It was like smoke.
If not smoke, then flame.
Reflexively, she brushed it away with the cotton she was holding.
Immediately, the shadow amplified as if it had a will of its own. It erupted as if to attack her. At the movement that seemed alive, Mizore let out a small cry and recoiled.

"What's wrong? What are you doing? Seriously."

A voice of exasperation came from the senior who was playing the role of the man cleaning up the bathtub and hoses.

"Don't make weird movements, it's embarrassing, you know."

Mizore pursed her lips, looking back and forth between the senior who was leaving the room saying things like, "That's why Matsuya-san..." and the pillow. That makes it sound like she's always acting weird.
Well, maybe she is weird.
The dark-colored smoke was also peeking out faintly from the weave of the nearby tatami mats. Perhaps because she noticed it, the places where the shadows were a little darker between things here and there were wavering.

"Why are you spacing out? Move your hands, move them!"

When she was called out again by the senior who was busy going in and out of the room, and was about to argue back, her head shook. The things she was seeing in front of her and the scene that shouldn't have been visible crossed over.
A deserted night street.
A black, large shadow.
Something even bigger than that thing.
And the sound of someone screaming.

"Matsuya-san?"

Perhaps she looked strange, as there was a suspicious voice. Gradually, her eyes and ears returned to reality.
A Japanese-style room in a house she didn't know. The sun was still high, and sunlight was shining in from beyond the veranda. It was, after all, a peaceful afternoon that was ill-suited to what was in front of her.

"Hey, don't you dare tell me you're feeling unwell, okay? We still have three more jobs to go. Both the first and second vans are packed, you know?"

　Yeah, yeah, Mizore reached for her makeup kit. That was when she finally noticed her hands were shaking. What she had seen in that split second was already beyond her grasp. Even so, she was the only one still shaken, as if her heart had risen all the way to her head. Only an inexplicable fear remained—yet, she focused on the work in front of her.
　That's right, there's no time. They had been given extra leeway for this site, but even so, her senior would have to speed the HiAce to the next location. As carefully and as quickly as possible.
　Even if she had a fever right now, there was no one to replace them. That’s the kind of job it was. The earliest they would get back to the office was eight. She knew they wouldn't get home until after ten, ever since she bought a quick snack at the convenience store before starting this job.

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