When you grip that ice-cold microphone, do you ever wonder—whose name will be the next one that chokes?
I first heard that rule last August. Old Zhou passed it down to me. Ten years in this trade, he said, only hit it once. An old lady's name, the mic went dead for three seconds. He waited five, sound came back. That was that. He clapped me on the shoulder, said don't worry, odds are you'll never run into it your whole career.
I believed him. Because I'd been working at the funeral home almost two years, hosted over three hundred farewell ceremonies, and the mic had never once acted up.
That silver wired mic, coiled on the lectern like a half-dead snake, delivered my voice on time every time—sent it out to those heads bowed dabbing tears in the front rows. Clear, even a little echoey, sounded solemn.
Until the third of last month.
That day was overcast, air thick enough to choke. Thirty-some people stood in the farewell hall, not too many, all close relatives.
In front of the casket was the portrait: middle-aged man, square jaw, straight brows, even smiling in the photo. Family sat in the first row—his wife and a half-grown son, shoulders touching but neither crying. His mother sat beside them, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe, two female relatives supporting her on either side.
I followed the script, reading the opening in a low, steady voice. The hall was quiet, only the old lady's sniffling broke through. That silver mic on the lectern sat solid and still, my right hand resting on its base, palm a little damp.
When I got to the life tribute section, I started reading the deceased's name.
"Comrade Wang Jianguo, born in 1972——"
The mic *zzt*-ed.
That sound, like someone scraping a blackboard with a fingernail, sharp and brief. My hand went stiff. I glanced down at the mic. Its head was silver-gray, the mesh grille black holes inside, nothing visibly wrong. Thought maybe a loose connection, gave the cable a light squeeze. The plug end was a bit wobbly, but I didn't dare mess with it further.
Kept reading.
"Comrade Wang Jianguo, in July of 2026——"
*Zzt* again. This time longer, about a full second. The family below looked up at me. The old lady in the front row stopped crying, red-rimmed eyes locked on the thing in my hand. My throat went tight, cleared it, told myself just rush through the last line and be done.
"Comrade Wang Jianguo, after failed treatment for illness, departed this life on July 15th——"
Total silence.
The mic went dead without warning. My lips were still moving, but my voice felt like it had been pinched off at the throat—not a single word came out. The farewell hall felt suddenly empty. I stood there like a mime, mouth opening and closing, the people below staring blankly.
The half-grown kid turned to his mom: "What's he saying?"
His wife didn't answer. Just stared at me.
My palms were soaked, the mic stand slippery enough to slip from my grip. First thought was give it a whack—used to do that with walkie-talkies back on construction sites when they cut out. But Old Zhou's words popped into my head: Don't hit. Don't shout. Wait three seconds.
I stopped.
Lips shut, body frozen behind the lectern, looking out at thirty-plus pairs of eyes. Those three seconds dragged on like three hours. I could hear my own heartbeat, *thump thump thump*, like a drum. The old lady started crying again, but the sound was muffled, like through a layer of cotton.
Fifth second.
*Zzzzt——*
Mic came back. Sound pushed through the grille again, a little static, but working. I looked down: "Comrade Wang Jianguo, after failed treatment for illness, departed this life on July 15th, at the age of fifty-three."
The rest went smooth. Life tribute read, eulogy read, dirge played, finally the family circled the casket once.
No more problems the whole rest of the ceremony.
By the end I'd calmed down enough, back soaked through with sweat, but nothing showed on my face. Family came over to shake my hand and thank me—standard procedure, happens every service. His wife walked first, eyes ringed red, gripped my hand: "Thank you, master. Sorry for the trouble."
Her hand was cold.
Not that cold you get from cold running water. The kind of cold you pull out of the freezer after sitting there all night. My fingers flinched, almost threw her hand off, but professional discipline held. Quick squeeze, let go, nodded: "Restrain your grief. Take care of yourself."
She didn't linger, turned to support the old lady. The half-grown kid followed behind, didn't even glance at me.
Back in the office I gulped two mouthfuls of cold boiled water. Heart still beating. Picked up the schedule on my desk, flipped through. All the day's services listed. July 15, 10 AM, Hall No. 2, Deceased Wang Jianguo. Family contact person: Wang Jianguo.
I stared at that name for half a minute.
In the family contact column, black on white, it said "Wang Jianguo."
I put the schedule down. Told myself probably the same name. Or father and son share a name, his son is also Wang Jianguo. Happens all the time—I've seen grandfather and grandson go by the same name. Drank another mouthful of water, didn't think more, started packing for the next service.
But the next few days, something felt off everywhere.
First, my water cup. Always left on the left side of my desk, next morning it's sitting on the right. Thought I forgot, moved it back to the left. Third day it's back on the right again. Asked Xiao Li sitting across from me. Xiao Li said didn't touch your cup, who wants your beat-up old porcelain mug.
Then the AC. That old Gree in our office, always set to 26 degrees, never touched. But every morning I unlock and walk in,
It's always colder inside than outside. AC panel reads 22 degrees. Asked the cleaning auntie. She said never touched the remote, that thing's locked in a drawer.
Two weeks ago Tuesday, I hosted a farewell for an old lady. Reading her name, the mic *zzt*-ed once—short, less than half a second.
My stomach dropped, but I didn't stop, kept reading. No issues after. Ceremony ended, family came over to shake hands. I subconsciously glanced at the person's hand. A middle-aged woman, warm to the touch, normal temperature.
But I went home that night and ran a fever. 38.5 degrees, lasted two days.
Old Zhou found out, called specifically to ask if I'd run into something. I said the mic zzt-ed once but didn't cut out. Old Zhou went quiet a moment on the other end, said that's fine, zzt is just zzt, don't dwell on it.
He paused and added: That Old Wang from before, you remember him? I said which Old Wang. He said the one who retired two years back, worked at our home twenty years. I said yeah, what about him.
Old Zhou said Old Wang ran into it once. Mic went dead, he didn't wait, smacked the mic. It popped back on right then, nothing happened at the service. But later... Old Zhou didn't finish, just said never mind, you're fine, hung up.
I stood on my dorm balcony holding the phone. Building across the way had lights on, someone was stir-frying, *sizzle sizzle* drifting over. The smell carried—green pepper shredded pork. I felt a tightness in my throat, stuffed the phone back in my pocket, went inside and turned off the AC.
A few days later, I started paying extra attention to the family members who shook my hand.
Told myself not to overthink, but when that hand came over I always snuck an extra look. Most people's hands were warm, some a little sweaty, some cold but that was winter or nerves. I wrote it off as coincidence, forgot about it and that was that.
Until the service the day before yesterday.
The deceased was a young girl, car accident, only twenty-four. A lot of people came, over a hundred, packed the farewell hall. Her mom fainted crying twice, her dad stood beside holding her up, face paper-white.
I deliberately slowed down reading the name. No mic issues, voice solid. Life tribute read, dirge played, family circled the hall.
Last her dad came over to shake my hand. Fingers trembling, but he extended them. I gripped his hand. Again that bone-deep cold. Exactly like Wang Jianguo's wife last time—like frozen meat. My chest clenched, nothing showed on my face, said a few words of comfort then let go.
Back in the office I flipped the schedule. Deceased: Li Xue. Family contact: Li Jiangang. Her dad's name was Li Jiangang, not Li Xue. So I shook her dad's hand, cold hands from grief and poor blood circulation, makes sense.
But what if.
I sat in the chair zoning out for a long time. The old Gree hummed blowing cold air, I turned it off again. Xiao Li asked why you keep turning off the AC. I said I'm cold. Xiao Li mumbled something about it being the middle of summer you're sick in the head if you're cold, I didn't answer.
Last night I tossed and turned, couldn't sleep. Got up, turned on the computer, searched some stuff. Keywords: "funeral home" "microphone" "rule."
Results were a mess. Stuff about emcees, singers, nothing touching farewell ceremonies. I searched "handshake" "cold", popped up a bunch of medical science articles—cold hands and feet from poor peripheral circulation, related to anemia, hypothyroidism, diabetes.
I closed the laptop, lay back staring at the ceiling. Dorm's incandescent bulb flickered a bit, on off on off. I stared at it for a long time, eventually somehow fell asleep.
This morning the alarm woke me. Seven o'clock sharp, time for work. Got up, washed my face, brushed my teeth, looked at myself in the mirror. Dark circles under the eyes pretty heavy, everything else fine. Put on the black suit, tied the tie, walked out.
Four services today. Two morning, two afternoon, packed tight.
First service was an old man, natural causes, eighty-nine—long life celebration. Family emotions steady, all grandchildren generation, everyone dressed neatly. I read the name one character at a time, scared something would go wrong.
Mic sat quietly, voice steady. Ceremony ended handshake time. Old man's oldest son's hand was warm, second daughter's hand was warm. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Second service was a middle-aged man, cancer, fifty-seven. Not much family, ten or so people, all in dark clothes. Reading the name I watched the mic closely. It was quiet, fine. Life tribute, eulogy, dirge—all procedures done. Handshake, family was a woman, fingers on the chilly side.
I instinctively squeezed her hand a second longer. She blinked, pulled her hand back. I quickly said sorry, restrain your grief. She nodded and left.
Back to office flipping the schedule. Deceased: Zhang Wei. Family contact: Zhang Li. Younger sister's hand cold, also normal.
But I started counting. From the Wang Jianguo service onward, I'd hosted twenty-three farewell ceremonies total. Among those who shook my hand, six had cold hands. Less than thirty percent, but I'd never paid attention to this before. Maybe it's always been like this, just I'm only counting now.
Lunchtime Old Zhou carried his lunch tray and sat across from me. He glanced at me, said you've looked rough these past few days. I said fine, just not sleeping well.
Old Zhou picked up a piece of braised pork, chewed, mumbled: That rule, don't take it too seriously. I mm-hmmed. Old Zhou added: Over ten years in this trade, you run into it once you run into it, you don't you don't. Don't scare yourself.
I said Brother Zhou, what happened to Old Wang back then, you were saying? What happened after?
Old Zhou's chopsticks froze. He looked at me, small eyes but bright. After a long while he said, Old Wang transferred later, went to the suburban branch. Then I heard he changed trades, went back to his hometown opening a little convenience store.
I didn't press, but he went on anyway: Anyway just don't hit the mic, don't yell, wait three seconds. Rules are rules, just follow them.
Before the third afternoon service, I caught a fifteen-minute nap in the break room. Had a dream—I was standing in the farewell hall, below was a sea of people, but no one's face was clear.
Mic was on the lectern, I reached for it, fingers just touched the grille, and the whole mic shattered, broke into glass shards, stabbed my hand full of blood. I woke up, palms soaked with sweat.
Third service was an old lady, eighty-two, heart attack. Twenty or thirty family members, filled most of the hall. Walking up to the stage my legs felt a little weak, grabbed the lectern to steady myself. The mic was right there, silver-gray, a matte gleam.
I started reading.
"Dear relatives and friends, today with heavy hearts we——"
Mic *zzt*-ed.
My hand shook. But I didn't stop.
"——here bid farewell——"
*Zzt* again. Longer than before, about two seconds.
People below started murmuring. I cleared my throat, raised my voice half an octave.
"Comrade Liu Xiuying——"
Mic went totally dead.
The grille holes were black. My voice disappeared into that little opening, not a single word got out. The farewell hall suddenly went dead quiet. Everyone looking at me. Old lady's kids sat in the first row, her son stood up, frowned, asked what's wrong, master?
I didn't move.
Lips shut, hand came off the mic, dropped to my side. I looked out at thirty-some faces—confused, tense, one little girl already started crying. The old lady's portrait sat in front of the casket, black and white, she was smiling in it, corners of her mouth curved gentle.
One second.
I heard the AC vent humming.
Two seconds.
Someone coughed, muffled.
Three seconds.
Old lady's son took a step forward.
Four seconds.
Palms soaked, suit cuff stuck to my wrist, cold and sticky.
Five seconds.
*Zzzzt——*
Mic came on. Sound pushed out through the grille, buzzing background static, but working. I looked down at that little silver-gray round head, throat tightened.
"Comrade Liu Xiuying, after failed treatment for illness——"
The rest went smooth, not a stutter. Life tribute read, eulogy read, when the dirge started I let out a long breath behind the lectern. Back sweat soaked through my shirt, plastered to my spine, icy cold.
Family circled the hall. The line inched forward, some crying, some silent, some taking phone photos. Old lady's son walked first, paused when passing the lectern, turned to look at me.
I nodded at him. The expression on his face was unreadable, like he wanted to say something but swallowed it, finally just nodded back, kept walking.
Ceremony ended. Family came to thank, old lady's son led the group. He was half a head taller than me, broad shoulders, dark skin, thick fingers—typical manual laborer type. I extended my hand, he shook it.
Cold.
Not the sharp stab of ice, the kind of cold you get from touching stone or iron too long, carrying an indescribable hardness. My fingers curled a little.
He held for two seconds then let go, said "Thank you, master," turned and left. Behind him his sister, her hand was warm. Then several younger relatives, hands warm, some a little damp.
Back in the office, first thing I did was flip the schedule.
3 PM, Hall No. 3. Deceased: Liu Xiuying. Family contact: Liu Jianguo.
Liu Xiuying's son is Liu Jianguo. So his hands were cold, probably from grief too. Big emotional swings cause peripheral blood vessels to constrict, hands and feet go cold—that's what the medical articles said.
But I put the schedule down, fingertips still tingling. The cold from where I'd shaken hadn't faded, like I'd rubbed on mint balm, wouldn't wipe off.
Xiao Li came in from outside, saw me sitting zoning, asked what's up. I said nothing, just tired. Xiao Li oh-ed, sat at his own spot, opened a bag of potato chips crunched them. Outside the window the sky clouded over, looked like rain.
I stood up, walked to the window, looked down at the parking lot. Not many cars, seven or eight spread out. Someone came out of the farewell hall, holding a black umbrella walking toward the cars. Raindrops started coming down, hitting the glass, *pat pat*.
Phone buzzed. Old Zhou WeChat: Afternoon okay?
I replied: Third one zzt-ed, cut out five seconds.
Old Zhou didn't reply for a long time. About three minutes later, he sent a line: You've got one more today. Be careful. Come to my place for dinner tonight.
I put the phone face down on the windowsill. Rain picked up, *papa* tapping the glass, cars and figures outside blurred. Two people still stood at the farewell hall entrance, under one black umbrella, couldn't see their faces. I stared at them for a long time, until the two got in a car and drove away.
Fourth service was four o'clock. I went over fifteen minutes early, wiped down the lectern. Mic was still there, silver-gray, grille holes black inside. I touched it—cold.
This one was a kid, eight years old, leukemia. Not many family, ten or so, two rows. The parents were both young, around thirty, supporting each other in the first row. Mom's eye sockets swollen, dad's lips pressed thin.
I stood behind the lectern, looked at the little portrait in front of the casket. In the photo the little girl had two pigtails, grinning with a missing front tooth.
I looked down and started reading.
"Dear relatives and friends, today with profound sorrow we gather here to bid farewell——"
Mic didn't zzt, voice steady.
"——little friend Chen Xiaoyu——"
Silence.
My mouth was still open, but not a single sound came out. The mic felt like it had been grabbed by the throat, all sound stuck inside the grille couldn't get out. Those ten or so people below looked at me. Her mom's eyes flooded instantly, her dad pulled her a little tighter.
I shut my mouth.
One second.
The little girl's photo glowed white under the lights.
Two seconds.
Her mom started crying, soft whimpering sounds.
Three seconds.
I heard my own heartbeat, *thump*, *thump*, *thump*.
Four seconds.
Her dad spoke, voice rough: "Master?"
Five seconds.
Nothing.
Mic lay on the lectern dead quiet, grille holes black, no movement whatsoever. I stared at it two seconds, lips moved but didn't make a sound. Old Zhou said if three seconds of pause still doesn't work, skip that name.
I opened my mouth.
"Little friend Chen Xiaoyu, on August 5th——"
Mic suddenly came on.
*Zzzzt* and my voice blasted out of the grille, with electric static. I paused.
"——on August 5th, after failed treatment for illness, departed this life——"
The rest went smoothly. Read the life tribute fast, eulogy fast, when the dirge finished I glanced at the time—nearly five minutes shorter than usual.
Family circled the casket. The little girl's parents walked first, supporting each other, shoulders shaking. Passing the lectern her dad looked up at me, eyes red, lips trembling, but said nothing.
Ceremony ended.
Family came to thank me. Her mom's hand extended, I shook it. Warm. Her dad's hand came over, I shook it too. Cold.
His fingers were longer than mine, knuckles defined, like a pianist's hands. When we shook the cold climbed from his fingertips up, crawled across my palm, up my wrist, up my forearm. I flinched a little, he didn't notice. Held two seconds then let go, said "Thanks."
I nodded, said restrain your grief.
They all left. Farewell hall empty, lights still on. I stood there, looked down at my right hand. The coldness in my palm was still there, like I'd gripped a block of ice that melted but I never wiped my hand. I turned my hand over, looked at it. Palm pale, no color.
Back to office flipped the schedule.
August 6th, 4 PM, Hall No. 4. Deceased: Chen Xiaoyu. Family contact: Chen Jianguo.
Chen Xiaoyu's dad, also named Chen Jianguo.
Third one.
I sat in the chair, closed the schedule, set it on the corner of my desk. Xiao Li already left for the day, office just me. Old Gree hummed away, blowing cold air.
I got up, turned the AC off, opened the window. Rain had slowed to a drizzle, pattering, smell of wet dirt in the air.
Phone rang. Old Zhou calling.
"Come for dinner," he said. "Your sister-in-law made dumplings."
I said okay.
Hung up I packed up, took off the suit jacket draped over the back of the chair. When I walked out I glanced back at my desk—schedule was there, cover printed with the funeral home logo, a gray cross. I reached to take it with me, hand halfway then pulled back.
Locked up, went downstairs, drove.
Old Zhou lives south of town, old residential building, sixth floor no elevator. Climbing up my legs ached a bit, stopped at the door huffing before knocking. Old Zhou opened the door, wearing an apron, still holding a dumpling in one hand. Glanced at me, said come in come in, dumplings almost ready.
Sister-in-law was in the kitchen busy, cooking fumes drifting out—chive and egg. Living room small, sofa old but clean, tea and sunflower seeds on the coffee table. Old Zhou told me to sit, went back to the kitchen to bring out dumplings.
I sat on the sofa, TV on, running news. Anchor reading international events, tone flat. I watched the screen, but not a word sank in. That little cold spot in my palm still hadn't gone, hand resting on my knee I could feel my hand was colder than my leg by a fair bit.
Old Zhou brought out the dumplings, two big plates, steamy hot. Sister-in-law brought vinegar dishes and garlic, sat across. Three people around the coffee table started eating. Dumplings burned my tongue, bit into one, chive and egg flavor hit strong, hot enough I gasped. Old Zhou laughed, said slow down slow down, nobody's fighting you for them.
Sister-in-law asked busy today, I said four services, okay. She said wasn't that old lady from so-and-so's family you hosted, I said yeah. She said that old lady was good people, went without suffering. I mm-hmmed.
Ate a while, Old Zhou set his chopsticks down. He looked at me, I looked at him. Sister-in-law looked at Old Zhou then me, said she'd go boil more in the kitchen, stood up and left.
Living room just the two of us. TV still on, volume turned down, background hum. Old Zhou picked up his teacup, drank, set it down.
"That kid today," he said. "What happened?"
I said mic cut out five seconds, I skipped the name. Old Zhou's brow furrowed then released. He said skipping is fine, no problem. I said Brother Zhou. He said yeah. I said I counted, from July to now, twenty-three services, six cold hands. Three of the family members had the same name as the deceased.
Old Zhou held his teacup motionless. TV switched to a commercial, a woman chirping about laundry detergent.
"You're sure?" he said.
I said I checked the schedules. Wang Jianguo's wife is Wang Jianguo, Liu Xiuying's son is Liu Jianguo, Chen Xiaoyu's dad is Chen Jianguo. All three are -Jianguo.
Old Zhou set the teacup down, fingers tapped the desktop twice. He said you know what Old Wang ran into back then?
I said no.
Old Zhou said that time for Old Wang, mic went dead, he didn't wait, smacked it. Smacked and it came on, nothing happened at the service. But after that day ended, Old Wang went home, his wife grabbed his hand and said why are you so cold.
Old Wang didn't care, took a hot bath and slept. Next morning his wife said hand's still cold. Third day, his mom called said what's wrong with your hand feels like a block of ice. Old Wang started to think something was off, went to the hospital, nothing came up, all tests normal, just cold hands.
He paused.
"That service Old Wang hosted, deceased was Li Jianguo. The family member who shook Old Wang's hand to thank him, was his wife, named Wang Xiulan. Should've had nothing to do with Old Wang. But from that day on, Old Wang's hands stayed cold. Still are."
I looked at Old Zhou. The living room lamp was warm yellow, shone on his face, wrinkle lines deep. TV commercial finished, switched back to news, anchor doing weather forecast, tomorrow cloudy turning partly cloudy, 23 to 31 degrees.
I said Brother Zhou, I shook three people's hands today, two of them cold. Old lady's son cold, little girl's dad cold. The middle-aged service this afternoon the younger sister was also cold. My right hand's still cold right now.
Old Zhou stared at my right hand. I put my hand out, palm up. Old Zhou reached to touch it, immediately pulled back. The expression on his face shifted, brief, but I saw it.
Sister-in-law came out of the kitchen carrying the second plate of dumplings, saw us sitting across from each other not talking, asked what's up. Old Zhou said nothing, talking shop. She set the dumplings down, looked at me again, said why is your hand so white, is it anemia. I said probably, haven't been sleeping well.
After dumplings I helped sister-in-law clear the bowls, Old Zhou smoked in the living room. I went to the kitchen to wash dishes, hot water running over my fingers, ran a good while before I felt a little warmth.
Dried my hands and came out, Old Zhou had already stubbed out the cigarette, standing on the balcony looking out. I walked over. Rain had stopped, streetlights below were on, wet pavement glistening.
Old Zhou didn't turn around, said: "That rule, when the funeral home first opened, was passed down from the first director. He said once when he was hosting a ceremony, the mic went silent, he smacked it three times.
That night he dreamed an old lady stood by his bed, asking him why he wouldn't let her leave. He woke up and his hand was cold. Stayed cold three months. Later he worked out that rule, passed it down, generation after generation."
Old Zhou turned to look at me, smoke drifting from his mouth.
"The director said, when the mic goes silent, it's the deceased speaking. You smack it, you're interrupting them. You don't let them finish, they follow you."
I stood on the balcony, night breeze blew over, cold. The streetlight below flickered once, then steadied. I put my right hand in my pocket, fingertips hit the lighter in there—cold.
"What about skipping the name?" I said.
Old Zhou ground out the cigarette butt on the railing, turned to walk inside. Passing by me he paused a beat, clapped my shoulder.
"Skipping it means you didn't listen. They'll find the next person."
Old Zhou went inside, balcony door clicked shut. I stood out there, looking at the road below. Someone walked by walking a dog, dog tail wagging. Building across the lights came on one by one—kitchen, living room, bedroom. Stir-fry smell drifted over again, couldn't tell what someone was making.
I pulled my right hand out of my pocket, looked at it under the streetlight. Palm still pale, fingertips a little blue. I clenched my fist, then let go. The cold was still there, seeping out from the bone gaps.
Three services tomorrow.
I walked back to the living room. Old Zhou and sister-in-law were on the sofa watching TV, called me over to sit. I sat down, three people watching a variety show, host grinning ear to ear, guests jumping around on stage. Sister-in-law was laughing so hard she leaned back, Old Zhou chuckled along.
I laughed too. TV light shone on my face, warm. My right hand rested on my knee, cold.
Outside the window the streetlight flickered on and off. Don't know which one's broken. Have to call property management tomorrow.