Crematorium

A cardboard box rested on a cart in the middle of the room with a man dressed in scrubs standing nearby. He looked in and smiled, admiring his own work. A woman lay still inside. Her complexion was vibrant through the tightly wrapped plastic sheet binding her in place. He picked up a roll of clear packing tape from the cart's utility tray and carefully closed the box, ensuring the lid fit snugly. The tape wound around the edges, sealing the woman inside. He gently placed the tape back on the utility tray for next time.

The man pulled a lever, opening a small hatch on the northern wall of the room, revealing a well-used oven. Flames flickered from the top, occasionally kissing the oven's ashen bottom. He wheeled the cart over to the door, placing it in front of the opening, and carefully slid the box into the oven. Fire kissed the top of the box, turning the cardboard the color of the woman's dusky hair. He closed the door and pressed a button on the adjacent wall. Fans roared inside the oven. He carefully opened it again to see the blaze charring the box lid. Sparks flicked onto his clothing. He quickly shut the door. Soon it would glow red, turning the box and woman inside to ash.

A vibrating alarm on the man's watch startled him. He was out of time. He dashed the cart to the next room. It was lined with steel tables and boxes of spare plastic sheets. Broken-down boxes lay underneath the tables, waiting for the next body. He removed his scrubs, uncovering a plain black suit, white shirt, and black tie. He carefully hung his scrubs on a hook inside the door. Reaching inside his jacket, he removed a little black book and chrome pen. The pen read "Daniel Peters" in dark lettering engraved on the side, a gift from the wonder who left him the crematorium. He opened the book to the middle, revealing a list of names. Each name aligned precisely with the one before it, in perfect handwriting. All names were crossed out but the last, Alison Peters.

The man took a ruler from the utility tray on the cart and made a perfectly straight line through the last name. He left the room into a hallway and turned into the adjacent washroom to wash his hands. Rolling up his sleeves, he set a timer for 20 seconds. He scrubbed meticulously before drying with a clean white towel. He left the room and made his way to a black door at the end of the hallway. The next room was large with eggshell white walls. The carpet was dark gray with white spots. Two luxurious cushioned seats sat next to a potted Peace Lily in the bay window. A plain white door with a plaque labeled "viewings" remained closed on the opposite side of the room. Its handle was dusty from lack of use.

A second vibrating alarm gently buzzed on the man's arm. He flipped the open sign on the front door. The man sat on a tall stool behind a tall mahogany desk. The desk was clean and free of any loose papers or pens. A sliding writing tray below the mahogany top was at the perfect height for someone sitting on the stool. He took the little black book and chrome pen from his pocket and set them on the shelf. He let out a sigh and light chuckle.

The front door opened. A woman walked in. She had blonde hair and wore a white pantsuit. She wasn't on the schedule. The man grimaced slightly, then recovered his professional composure.

"Hi. I'm Barbara Moss. Are you Daniel Peters?"

The man inspected Barbara. The blouse underneath her pantsuit was misaligned. She had a dark brown smudge on her left knee, letting slip she didn't inspect her appearance before leaving the house. He stuttered, taken aback by her rushed appearance. "Mr. Peters left unexpectedly. I wasn't expecting you, Miss Moss. I am The Curator."

Barbara spoke frantically, "I know. I should have called ahead. I don't know what to do. My husband died so suddenly and all I have is his insurance. It's only $20,000. All the other places quoted mo - "

"Of course, Miss Moss," the curator interrupted. His face turned to delight. "We provide a service for every situation. I would be happy to take care of you personally."

The Curator wrote "Barbara Moss" in the little black book and led her to the black door.