From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 83: The Quiet Procession

With the first part of the "funeral" concluded, one of the townspeople spoke to Lucian. They wore black funeral clothes and had long, flowing hair. But like Gabriel, their face was hidden behind a mask.

"Good evening, Edward. You and your party can rest now. Return tomorrow." Even their voice sounded extremely monotone, like the slightest emotion could send the town into ruin.

Elian should have lived here, Lucian thought. It might have done him more good than isolation.

Lucian and his companions explored the medium-sized town. There were dozens of shops and restaurants, but they all sold clothes and food that looked remarkably similar.

He looked at several homes with hedges that were trimmed to the same height and tried not to shudder. It was like a perfectly rehearsed tableau. When they entered a restaurant, all of the food was a strange hue of gray.

Even the children cried wordlessly as their parents tried to console them.

"Does everyone think pretending to grieve makes this all okay?" Lucian asked Merry in hushed tones.

"They do," she replied. "like if they acknowledge it, but don’t voice it out...it’s basically the same thing."

He knew it wasn’t, but paused their conversation when a waitress gave them plates of gray sandwiches and gray glasses of tea.

+

Dozens of people gathered around Mimea’s central square. Lucian, Alice, Merry, and Cadrel stood at the edge of the gathering, wordless, out of place. His Grimoire was stored in his satchel and the Loom was in its case by his side.

Lucian felt the Loom pulse--not in warning, but in restraint. "Do you feel that?" he asked softly, and Alice nodded. "The heaviness? It’s coming from beneath the funeral stage."

He nodded. "That energy’s affecting the Loom. It’s being held back."

Dara’s body (still, serene, and unclaimed) lay atop a bed of paper lilies. Lucian immediately felt uncomfortable. This girl looked far too young to be part of such a frigid town.

+

Without warning, the next act started. As if they were one, the townspeople lifted their palms and placed them on their hearts. After a few seconds, their palms opened to the sky.

Mayor Tricia was in the center of the square, taking the lead. "The Offering Hand," she said loudly, and Lucian knew that was for their benefit.

The townspeople moved like they had a hive mind. Polished and perfect, with every motion memorized. Lucian felt disgusted with this display. Instead of expressing their feelings about losing someone they cared about, it was a play.

Mourning had become theater.

And then it got worse. All of the townspeople dropped to their knees. Then their heads touched the ground. No gasps or sobs were heard.

"The Fall," Mayor Tricia bellowed from her place.

Lucian’s Loom twitched in its case, and Lucian knew what that meant.

It wasn’t enough.

No threads were severed and no echoes were released. Dara was still very much present somewhere--beneath the square, maybe.

Alice wiggled her toes impatiently in her shoes. Lucian saw her fidgeting with the ribbon on her sketchbook to keep them from trembling.

"She’s still here," Alice whispered. "I can feel it."

Lucian nodded.

He looked to Merry. "Are you ready to hold the line?"

She looked like she wanted to argue, but said nothing.

Lucian didn’t understand. "What’s wrong?"

Merry didn’t answer at first.

Instead, her eyes scanned the kneeling townspeople, then flicked down to the dry dirt beneath their feet—dust packed tight over grief that had never been named.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but steady.

"I...don’t think this one’s ours to finish, Lucian."

Lucian blinked. "What do you mean?"

She turned to him, expression unreadable.

"This rite... it’s been in place for generations. It’s not just tradition here—it’s survival. You unspool it too fast, and everything buried beneath this square might come crawling out. Including the things they chose to forget."

"You think you’re helping. But what if this isn’t about Dara anymore? What if you unravel more than one girl’s story?"

Lucian’s jaw clenched. "She deserves to be named."

"I know," Merry said gently. "But if you force it, the town will see her as a mistake. Not a memory."

Her words weren’t cruel—but they cut.

Lucian turned back toward the square.

He thought of the paper lilies. Of the way silence had shaped this town like stone. Of Dara’s voice, waiting beneath.

Then he looked at Alice.

Her hands trembled as she clutched her sketchbook tighter.

"If we walk away," she whispered, "won’t we be like them?"

Merry’s reply was almost too soft to hear.

"Or we’ll let them choose grief for themselves, when they’re ready."

Lucian looked down at the Loom.

It pulsed once, as if sensing the decision it couldn’t make for him.

+

Lucian felt...frozen. He didn’t move toward the square, and his hands didn’t reach toward the Loom. He just stood there with Mimea’s silence covering him like a wool shroud.

Lucian’s gloved hands curled loosely at his side. His breath caught once and then evened out.

Maybe she’s right. What if I unravel more than one girl’s story...? What if there are more girls like Dara, but aren’t ready to talk? What then?

He had never been good at matters of the heart. And then he did what Merry wanted him to do all along: he waited.

The townspeople began The Rise, arms raised, faces blank. Dara still hadn’t been named. Not once. Not by voice. Not by thread.

Instead of following his emotions, Lucian was determined not to take a step forward. The inaction hurt his very being, but he needed to see this through. And thankfully, his (frayed) patience was rewarded.

Alice took a step forward.

Her sketchbook was tucked safely between her hand and the crook of her arm. She walked past Lucian, each footstep slow and sure. The hem of her dress brushed the heated stepping stones.

But now her fingers weren’t trembling as bad. Merry’s eyes widened, but she didn’t stop her. Cadrel, sitting to the side, just kept watching in silence.

+

Slowly but surely, Alice moved past the other mourners. Their gaze did not follow her. When she reached the stage, she stepped onto the edge of the platform, where Dara’s body lay among the paper lilies.

Alice’s stitched mouth remained closed. She let her chalk speak in her place.

In one fluid motion, she drew a soft glyph across the stone beneath Dara’s head. It wasn’t to break the rite, but to complete it.

One line curved for love.

Another for memory.

A third, small and tender, for permission.

The glyph glowed pink-gold, like the sun finally remembered how to rise.

The Loom thrummed with satisfaction. Lucian stepped forward then and accepted his role as a witness. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

The ground beneath the platform didn’t crack.

It exhaled.

The paper lilies stirred. The silence... softened.

Then the crowd heard a gentle voice. It wasn’t from Alice or Lucian--but from Dara’s own thread.

"Thank you."

A single tear dropped from Alice’s cheek onto the glyph.

And Dara’s thread lit up—then disappeared into the night. It left gently, like a calm exhale.

Lucian looked to Merry.

Thankfully, she didn’t look angry.

Just...relieved.

"Alice did it better than we ever could," she said.

Lucian nodded, heart thudding in his chest.

"Because she waited to be asked."

+

The town didn’t turn on them or berate them for interrupting the funeral. Instead, they waited.

As Dara’s thread faded, the last of the paper lilies unfurled. One drifted gently to the ground and landed at Alice’s feet.

She knelt and picked it up with a grateful heart. Alice’s glyph had stopped glowing, but the shape remained.

Lucian stepped closer, not speaking.

Alice turned toward the silent crowd.

Still no sound.

Still no movement.

Except for one figure.

An elder with silver hair in a long veil of gray silk stepped forward from the line of townspeople. Their mask bore no mouth—only a single eye, half-lidded, painted in solemn blue.

They walked directly to Alice.

Stopped.

Then removed the mask.

Their face was weathered but soft, lined from age and not from cruelty. Their voice, when it came, was like an old candle relighting:

"That wasn’t part of the rite."

Alice didn’t answer.

But she didn’t retreat either.

The elder studied her.

Then looked to the paper lily in her hand.

They nodded once.

Then bowed.

Just slightly.

Enough for the town to see.

Then they said, to no one in particular:

"The silence has shifted."

Slowly, Mayor Tricia stepped in to help the elder.

No one else moved.

But something had definitely changed.

Mimea was not a broken or healed town.

It had changed.

And as Alice walked back to Lucian, she whispered:

"I didn’t know I could do that."

Lucian met her eyes.

"Neither did they."