My dad is the Grim Reaper

I am a wedding planner entrusted with guiding couples through every intricate detail of their nuptial celebrations—from selecting the perfect venue and coordinating with vendors to orchestrating the entire sequence of events. Over the years, my expertise has alleviated the stress of preparations for countless couples, ensuring their weddings proceed with flawless elegance.

My mom succumbed to illness over a decade ago, leaving my dad and me to rely on each other since my high school days. Fortunately, my dad's steady income ensured that, despite our solitude, our life remained comfortably secure. Reflecting on my upbringing, I scarcely recall ever fretting about money—perhaps, as my dad once foretold before his departure, those destined for an early end tend to enjoy a comparatively prosperous life.

In what seems like the blink of an eye, it has been over ten days since my dad passed away. During this period, Mark and several other friends have intermittently joined me for drinks and conversation. In quieter moments, I have mused that perhaps this grim reaper is not so malevolent after all; with work consuming most of my hours, even idle moments might be regarded as a kind of second vocation. Yet, I cannot help but wonder if this promised abundance might bestow upon me some unexpected fortune.

This morning, the company called to inform me that a couple wished to meet. Though we had only just concluded a family funeral, duty beckoned, and I arranged to see them at the office at two in the afternoon.

As always, I arrived at the office thirty minutes early. In our trade, we rarely adhere to fixed hours—when duty calls, we convene at the office; when not, we repose at home. Today, upon my arrival, my boss was absent, leaving only our young attendant, Alen, to watch over the premises.

"Sam, the couple just phoned—they'll be here shortly. Please, have a seat," he instructed.

I nodded, settling onto the sofa and perusing the latest news on my phone, when I soon heard footsteps ascending the stairs. Hand in hand, the couple appeared. I stepped forward to introduce myself and led them to the seating. The groom, around forty, and the bride, in her early twenties, exchanged pleasantries before revealing that the groom was entering his second marriage while the bride was a maiden. The groom exuded an air of flamboyance—almost that of a nouveau riche—commanding every decision between them and leaving the bride with scarcely a chance to speak.

As we discussed the finer points of the wedding itinerary—such as the groom kneeling on one knee to present the bride with flowers and proclaim, "My dear, I love you; will you marry me?"—the groom interjected with a dismissive glance. "Why should I tell her that I love her?" he declared, before turning to the bride and adding, "Don't you agree?" The bride, with a touch of sorrow, merely nodded.

At a loss for words, I ventured, "It is customary for the couple to begin by offering the bride flowers and reciting vows."

"Indeed," he replied. "That was the case at my previous wedding. Yet, I find myself incapable of uttering such words. Perhaps, my friend, you might speak on my behalf?"

My incredulity was palpable. Must I truly be the one to voice his sentiments? I managed a resigned smile and replied, "I cannot possibly imagine standing on stage declaring on your behalf that you love her, only to follow by proclaiming that she loves you in return."

To my utter astonishment, he responded simply, "I think that would be splendid."

In all my years, I had never encountered such an audacious groom, nor had I ever been rendered speechless by a client. I found myself irresistibly curious—what quality in this bride could have captured his heart so completely?

Eventually, I mustered the fortitude to see them off. As they departed, Alen burst into laughter, exclaiming, "That man is extraordinary!"

I shook my head ruefully. "Indeed, his remarks left me utterly speechless."

"Sam, if your eloquence left you mute, then he is truly something else," Alen remarked.

I nodded in silent agreement. "I am in awe—and already apprehensive about their upcoming wedding."

We exchanged a few more light-hearted banter before Alen mentioned he needed to film some footage. Observing that the day was still young and that I would soon return to an empty home, I decided to linger a little longer. Yet, scarcely had I taken a seat when a sudden vertigo seized me—I thought, not again!

Sure enough, I found myself once more venturing into the realm of the departed, encountering the infernal adjudicator who, without uttering many words, handed me a slip of paper inscribed with: 

"02/02/2021 17:32 · New Orleans · St. Anne District, No. 113, Valeria, Female, Cerebral Infarction."

This assignment, too, hailed from afar. Although I was a native of New Orleans and had frequented its streets many times, I was utterly unfamiliar with the whereabouts of No. 113.

Emerging from the netherworld, a portal bathed in a crimson glow appeared before me. As before, I stepped through and emerged into a quiet living room. I wandered about, noting the apparent absence of any inhabitants. Suddenly, the creak of a door reached my ears, followed by its opening. An elderly woman, perhaps in her sixties, entered carrying a supermarket bag in one hand and keys in the other. Barely had she set her bag upon the table when she collapsed, falling lifelessly to the floor. I raised my right hand—and, as before, my palm shimmered with a red luminescence. The elderly woman's brow then mirrored this glow; as I lifted my hand, a stream of red light leapt into my palm. Just as I was about to depart, a piercing cry of "Nana!" echoed from behind.

I turned to see a small girl, no older than six or seven, clutching a windmill that had slipped from her grasp. She darted to the fallen woman's side, weeping, "Nana, Nana, what has happened? Speak to me, Nana!"

The sight of the little girl trembling as she cradled the frail form stirred a profound sorrow within me. Before I could ruminate further, a sharp pain shot through my right palm—as if urging me to return and report my findings. Without hesitation, I rushed into the portal; as it closed behind me, I distinctly heard the girl's heart-wrenching cries.

When I next opened my eyes, I found myself once again seated on the office sofa. Glancing at the clock, it seemed as though time had frozen during my absence. I rose and approached Alen. "Alen, did I just fall asleep?"

"No, how could you?" he replied.

Quickly, I explained, "Perhaps the tumult at home has robbed me of sleep these past few days, and I merely drifted in a daze. If nothing urgent arises, I shall take my leave."

"Very well. The past is past—cheer up," he advised.

I nodded and departed the office.

Yet, throughout my journey home, the plaintive cries of that little girl haunted my ears, stirring an unease deep within. Alas, I am beginning to suspect that this reaper is far more capricious than I had ever imagined.