The morgue was silent, save for the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The air carried the familiar scents of antiseptic, formaldehyde, and something more delicate-rose water, faint but present. A woman stood at the embalming table, her gloved hands hovering just above the cold, lifeless skin of the body before her.

  She did not fear the dead. Nor did she grieve for them. She knew them. Their stillness, their silence. The fragility of their remains. The weight of what they left behind. In this modern temple of the departed, it's just her and me - and Death, lingering as a silent witness in the corners of my mind. Hello, old friend, she thinks toward that lingering presence. Be patient. Let me do my work. She thought.

  This was the quiet work of the living-to smooth away the last remnants of suffering, to prepare them for the gaze of those who would come to say goodbye. And she was very, very good at it.

  Tonight, her canvas was a woman-She was beautiful, even in death's unmoving repose. The elegant curve of her cheekbones remained, the delicate shape of her lips untouched by decay. But death had begun its slow reclamation. Her blood had long stilled, her skin bore the waxen grey of finality.

  The marks on her throat-Violet bruises bloom in the delicate shape of fingers around her neck – a fading constellation of violence - tragic tattoos left by the cruelty of a husband's hands.

  She exhaled softly. I'm sorry.

  A cloth dipped into warm water, infused with rose oil, passed over the woman's skin. A small kindness. With gentle strokes, she wiped away the residue of death—hospital tape, dried blood, the last remnants of struggle. A final cleansing.

  Her tools were laid out in neat, orderly rows: fine brushes, powders in muted tones, pigments mixed with care. Restoration was an art. It required patience, an intimate knowledge of shadow and light. The human face was not just flesh-it was movement, expression, the soft curve of a smile, the lingering trace of emotion.

  She could not bring the woman back. But she could make it seem as though she had never left.

  With slow, practiced motions, she selected a foundation-one designed to counteract the gray undertones of death, lending the illusion of warmth. Each brushstroke was deliberate, almost reverent. A soft flush of colour along the cheeks, blended carefully, mimicking the way blood once sat beneath the skin.

  It was an illusion, yes. But it was also an act of love.

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  As she worked, she imagined the woman alive. Did she blush easily? Did she tilt her head when she laughed? Did she prefer soft pink lipstick, or something bold, something red? Has she been happy? Has she been loved?

  Her eyelids were closed now. (She had closed them gently when she first arrived, feeling the slight weight of her lashes as they met.) They hid eyes that would cry no more, eyes that had last seen an act of betrayal. She smoothed a pale pearlescent powder over them, giving the impression she was merely resting, about to drift into a dream. In her mind's eye, though, she opened those eyes, and they sparkled.

  She took a small comb and began to smooth her hair. Silky chestnut strands fell loosely around her face. The mundane, intimate act of combing a stranger's hair always tugged at something deep in her. As she parted and arranged each lock, she imagined the hundred ordinary moments; her tying her hair up before bed, running late and skimming a brush through it in a rush, or a loved one tucking a strand behind her ear with affection. Each stroke of the comb is measured, loving and final.

  But the bruises on her throat remained. They told the truth in deep violet and blue, finger-shaped confessions of the man who had taken her life. The embalmer's jaw tightened as she reached for a thicker concealer, dabbing and blending until the angry purple faded into something softer, something unseen.

  It felt almost subversive-covering up the evidence, rewriting the story.

  But this was not for him, the man who had done this. This was for her. This was for the people who would stand before the casket, searching for their mother, their sister, their daughter. They would not see what had been done to her. They would see who she had been.

  Her lips had been slightly parted when she arrived-an unfinished breath, stolen too soon. Now, they were gently molded into place, touched with soft rose pigment. The bow of her upper lip was defined, giving her an expression of quiet repose. It was not a smile, not exactly. But it held something of serenity.

  A delicate comb smoothed her hair, now clean and shining. It fell in soft waves around her shoulders, arranged not just for appearance, but for memory. Someone would stand over this casket soon, searching for the woman they had lost, and they would find her.

  And in that moment, they would remember love, not death.

  She began to clean her tools, the ritual bringing her back to the present. The brushes washed, the powders closed, the excess foundation wiped from the various palettes, she felt that familiar presence still looming gently. "Not yet" she murmurs to death with the faintest smile, "she's not quite ready for you to take it completely". Of course, death had already taken her, but in her heart she had always given a small part of whoever was laying before her to the world of the living - if only in semblance.

  She turns off the harsh overhead lamp, leaving only a dim lap in the corner. In this softer light, her face looks luminous, She could be asleep, dreaming sweetly. "Goodnight" She whispers out loud, her voice reverent and low. She almost senses death inclining his head, a solemn acknowledgement of what had passed here, With that, she steps away into the fluorescent hallway, leaving her restored at peace.

  Death had taken much.

  But tonight, for this brief moment, it had been denied the last word.