"Tallowman?" Lucian asked softly.
The figure continued staring at the ash tree, and didn't reply.
Lucian waited a moment longer, then shrugged. The weight of this silence was especially heavy on his shoulders. I guess this conversation is over.
Still, he said quietly, almost to himself, "I hope you know there are more memories than just pain."
+
After rereading his assignment, Lucian thought it was best to return to the carriage and think about what to do next. The wind rustled through the ash leaves, brittle as old paper. His Grimoire sat heavily in his satchel like a lingering thought.
Lost in thought, Lucian's arm brushed against something dry and brittle. A hollow clatter echoed through the still air. Lucian flinched, spinning to see a cardboard box topple from a nearby stack.
"I'm so sorry—" he said, raising both hands in mock-surrender.
Three skeleton priests turned—if empty eye sockets could be called staring. Two knelt in the dust gathering pale candles while a third ran after some candles that had rolled toward a dried pile of leaves.
One of the priests saw his coffin-shaped pin and gave a bony smile. "Ah! A mortician! We haven't seen one of you in a century. Thought you all died out."
Lucian couldn't help feeling amused. "Surely there's one buried around here, Father…?"
"John," the skeleton said, holding out his hand. As he shook it, Lucian noticed some cuts in his bone fragments, and how they snagged on his gloves.
When Father John tried to pull away, Lucian's glove came with him, and he laughed and sounded a bit embarrassed. "Sorry, sorry!" The mortician laughed and shook his head. "It's all right, Father. It's nice to see some humanity around here."
Father John looked down at his scarred hands. "Yes, well—that's what lighting one of Michael's candles will do to you…especially when you use them at the church."
One of the priests ran up to them, his robe looser than the other two. "Ah, Brother Fredrick! I was just telling the mortician about Tallowman's candles." Brother Frederick had a pair of heavy knight's gauntlets on as he carried some muddy candles—they had rolled much farther than he expected.
"Does it help?" Lucian asked, looking at the gauntlets. Brother Frederick nodded so hard he thought his jaw would dislocate. "Others at Candlemere thought I was crazy, but…now they just leave me alone. Especially when I killed the flames two weeks ago."
The mortician was intrigued. "What happened then?"
Brother Frederick looked at him solemnly. "The entire town suffered nightmares after Father John used these candles for fifteen minutes."
+
The old church in Candlemere was almost too clean.
Polished pews. Fresh flowers. The altar dusted to a gleam. Skeletons moved with quiet purpose, candles in bony hands, dusters tied to their waists. Despite the upkeep, Lucian noticed the chapel was strangely empty of worshippers.
No hymns. No echoing prayers.
Just silence.
Brother Frederick spotted him first. His robes were spotless, his jaw slightly chipped. He bowed with a stiff creak. "Apologies for the lack of ceremony, Mortician. We mostly stick around out of habit these days."
Lucian followed him inside, letting the scent of sage and melted tallow roll over him. "I thought there'd be more services."
"There used to be," Brother Frederick admitted, walking with him toward the nave. "Especially when Tallowman still donated his old memory candles. They were a gift—gentle things, meant to soothe the weary."
He gestured toward the back of the church, where boxes were stacked under thick velvet cloth. "Then came… those."
Lucian lifted the edge of the cloth.
Rows of candles, perfectly shaped, their wicks sealed in wax that glimmered faintly. Despite not being lit, the air around them felt heavy. Dense.
He winced.
"These don't just store memories," Lucian said softly. "They trap them."
Brother Frederick nodded solemnly. "Even we had nightmares. Brother Edward tried holy water in desperation—and it helped. Barely."
Lucian reached into his coat for his own vial. "So the light hurts because it's... too raw?"
"Too unresolved," the priest said. "He's pouring pain into them. I don't think he knows how to do anything else anymore."
It was the middle priest—small-framed and wearing a robe one size too big—who took Lucian aside later.
"Um… Mortician, sir?" Brother Edward whispered, peering around like someone might overhear. "There is a ritual you could try. For Mima."
Lucian paused. "For her?"
The priest's skull nodded. "It's not one of release. Not fully. It's… a ritual of joy. Not grief."
Lucian blinked. "Joy?"
"She meant everything to him," the priest said. "But I think he's afraid to remember the good times. Because they'll hurt more than the loss itself."
Lucian rubbed his jaw, thinking. "That's why he clings to the pain. It doesn't move. It doesn't grow."
The priest nodded. "But I know pets. They hurt when you do."
That night, Lucian sat on the porch of his rented room just outside Candlemere. The moon was pale and watery, like a half-remembered dream.
The village was quiet. Still.
Until—
A soft, keening mewl.
Lucian stood slowly. Followed the sound past fences and fields, until the Tallowman's workshop came into view. The yard was still swept, but the workshop window glowed faintly from within.
And there, nose pressed against the glass—
A massive bear-cat.
Translucent, spectral. Her paws didn't touch the ground. Her fur shimmered like polished wax, and her eyes were pools of old honey, wide and sad.
She mewed again. Not like a monster.
Like a lonely pet.
Lucian stepped back, hand reaching for the Grimoire.
It opened before he could touch it.
[NEW ENTRY – MIMA]
Status: Gentle spirit
Classification: Residual Companion
Binding Potential: Low
Willingness to Rest: High (conditional)
Condition: Owner must accept memory of joy.
Recommended Approach:
Do not cleanse with holy water.
Do not mourn with silence.
Call her with something sweet.
Lucian exhaled.
He looked down at the page. Then back up at her.
"I think it's time," he whispered. "To remember the good."
And Mima blinked once, slowly. As if she understood.