Chapter Text
Etho had been a mortician for years, his hands steady and practiced, his mind trained to compartmentalize emotions.
This was the only way he could navigate the delicate balance of honoring the dead while maintaining the distance necessary to complete his work. Over the years, he had seen it all: infants taken too soon, elders who had lived full lives, victims of tragedy, and those who passed quietly in their sleep.
But nothing in his extensive career had prepared him for this moment—working on the lifeless body of his wife, Cleo.
The small, sterile room was silent except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above and the occasional scrape of his tools. His hands trembled for the first time in years as he unzipped the body bag, revealing Cleo's still form. Her face, though pale and bruised, still bore the faint traces of her signature smirk, the one that used to light up the room.
Etho paused, the weight of reality pressing against his chest like a vice.
He inhaled sharply and pulled his focus back to the task at hand. Compartmentalize. That was his mantra. He repeated it in his mind like a prayer.
Etho examined her carefully, documenting every injury, every bruise, every detail of the life-ending crash that had stolen her away. The drunk driver who had caused the collision was alive, but Cleo was not.
Pneumothorax—her lungs had collapsed under the force of the impact. It was written plainly in her file, but to Etho, it felt like an insult to reduce the complexity of her life and death to a single word.
He worked with precision, draining her blood and beginning the embalming process. His hands moved as if on autopilot, performing each step of the procedure he had done countless times before. But this time, it was different. This time, he couldn't maintain his professional silence.
He began to speak softly, his voice trembling at first. "Hey, Cleo... it's me," he said, as if she would respond. "You'd probably make some snarky comment about how I’m doing this all wrong. I can hear you now—‘Etho, that’s not how you hold a scalpel.’” He let out a hollow chuckle, though the ache in his chest grew heavier.
As he worked, he continued to talk to her, telling her about his day, about the little things she would have teased him about. It was his way of keeping her alive, of bridging the gap between life and death. He spoke about the roses she had planted last spring, which were now blooming in their garden. He told her about how the cat had refused to leave her side during her last days. And he told her how much he missed her, how much he regretted not being able to protect her.
“Cleo... you’re still here with me, right?” His voice cracked as he placed his gloved hand gently on hers. The warmth of life had long since faded, but in his mind, she was still there, listening, smirking, making him laugh despite the weight of the world.
Etho knew the embalming process was meant to preserve, to delay decay, but he couldn’t help but feel like he was trying to preserve more than just her physical form. He wanted to preserve her spirit, her essence, and the life they had shared. As he finished the process, smoothing her hair and adjusting her features to give her a peaceful expression, he whispered, "I love you, Cleo. Always."
In that small room, surrounded by the tools of his trade, Etho allowed himself a moment to grieve, to remember, and to hold on to the life they had built together.
Etho’s breath caught in his throat as he slipped on his gloves, the sterile snap echoing in the small, lifeless room. The body bag lay before him on the cold metal table. He hesitated, his hands hovering over the zipper. He had unzipped countless bags, revealing countless faces, but this one was different.
This one held Cleo. He knew it did.
With trembling hands, he opened the bag, and there she was—still, pale, and bruised, but unmistakably her. The sharp edges of her jawline, the curve of her lips, even the faint freckles across her nose. Her skin, usually warm and full of life, now bore the telltale pallor of death. Etho’s throat tightened.
He wanted to turn away, to flee from this impossible task, but he couldn’t.
He had to see it through.
“Hey, Cleo,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent lights. “It’s me. You’re stuck with me one last time, huh?”
He tried to force a smile, but it faltered. Gently, he began the first step of the process, examining her body. His gloved fingers brushed over her arm, tracing the outline of a large bruise blooming just below her shoulder. “You’d probably tell me to hurry up. ‘Get it over with, Etho,’ right? But... I can’t rush this. Not with you.”
His fingers moved to her ribs, feeling the fractures left by the impact. He winced, his voice thick as he spoke. “You were always the strong one, Cleo. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this without you.”
He recorded each injury with precision, noting the cause of death: pneumothorax, a collapsed lung. The medical finality of the words made his chest tighten. “A drunk driver,” he muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. “I swear, Cleo, if I could—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.
Revenge wouldn’t bring her back.
Once the examination was complete, Etho moved to the next step: draining her blood. He set up the equipment with methodical care, trying to ignore the tremor in his hands. “You hated when I talked about this part of the job,” he said, glancing at her face as if she might roll her eyes in response. “‘So morbid,’ you used to say. Guess it’s different now, huh?”
The embalming machine whirred to life, a low, mechanical sound filling the room. Etho inserted the cannula with delicate precision, his hands moving as gently as if she were still alive. “I’m trying to be gentle,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “You’d call me out if I wasn’t.”
As the blood drained, he began the process of replacing it with embalming fluid. He worked slowly, carefully, his eyes flickering to her face every few minutes. “You know, I can still hear your voice,” he said, almost to himself. “Every sarcastic comment, every joke. It’s like you’re still here, keeping me company.”
He paused to adjust her hair, smoothing back the gorgeous ginger strands that had fallen over her forehead. “Remember how you used to yell at me for messing with your hair? You’d say, ‘Etho, I spent hours on this!’ And I’d just laugh because you always looked amazing, no matter what.”
The room fell silent for a moment as he focused on her hands, cleaning them with care. He remembered how those hands had held his, how they had created art, tended gardens, and comforted him in his darkest moments. “I miss your hands,” he admitted, his voice a broken whisper. “I miss... everything.”
As he moved to adjust her features, ensuring she looked peaceful, tears blurred his vision.
He blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. “You’d hate this part,” he said, forcing a weak laugh. “You always said you didn’t want to look ‘dolled up.’ But I just want you to look like you—like the Cleo I know.”
Finally, Etho stepped back, his work nearly complete. He removed his gloves and placed a hand gently on hers. The warmth he had always known was gone, replaced by the cold finality of death. Still, he held on, refusing to let go just yet.
“Cleo,” he said softly, his voice breaking, “I don’t know how to say goodbye. I don’t think I can. So... I’m not going to. You’re still here with me. You always will be.”
For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if the universe itself was listening. Then Etho stepped away, his heart heavier than it had ever been, but his resolve stronger. He had done this final act of love for her, and though it hurt, it was his way of saying he would carry her with him, always.
Etho swallowed hard as he looked at her face, so still and serene in death, yet hauntingly familiar. Her lips, slightly parted, had settled naturally after her passing, as if she might speak at any moment. Those green eyes, though clouded and lifeless, stared at him with an intensity that seemed to pierce through his carefully constructed walls. He exhaled slowly, a tremor in his breath.
"I'll do my best, love," he whispered, his voice cracking as he leaned closer. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."
Gingerly, he reached for the small tool he would need to examine her tongue. His hands shook slightly as he adjusted her jaw, carefully parting her lips. He paused, staring at her as if willing her to stop him, to scold him for even thinking about continuing. But there was only silence. Etho’s throat tightened, and he let out a shaky sigh. “You hated this part of my job, Cleo. Always said it was too invasive... too much. I won’t... I won’t take it, okay? Not yours.”
His gloved fingers brushed against her lips as he carefully adjusted her jaw. Even in death, there was a delicate beauty to her that made his chest ache. Slowly, he tilted her head to get a better view. Her tongue lay still, pale, and motionless, and Etho hesitated, his own voice breaking the silence. “You’d laugh at me for being so slow. ‘Come on, Etho, it’s not like I can feel it.’ But... I just can’t, Cleo. Not you. Not this.”
For a moment, he allowed himself to linger, his mind flooding with memories of her sharp wit and quick tongue—the way she had teased him, argued with him, and whispered words of comfort late into the night. He blinked back the sting of tears as he gently returned her jaw to its natural position, ensuring her lips stayed softly closed.
He turned away to mix the embalming chemicals, focusing on the precise measurements required. The familiarity of the process gave his hands something to do, but his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. “The boys...” he began, his voice quiet and strained. “Our boys... they’re not okay, Cleo. Bdubs is still in denial. Keeps saying you’re going to walk through the door any minute. I don’t know how to make him see... I don’t know if I want to.”
He paused, pouring the next chemical into the mixture, watching as the liquid swirled together. “And Scar,” he continued, shaking his head, “Scar hasn’t spoken to me since we got the news. He just... shut down. I think he blames me. Maybe I blame me too.”
Etho stirred the mixture, his movements precise but slower than usual. The silence in the room pressed against him like a weight. “I told them I’d look after you. That I’d make sure you were okay. But I couldn’t stop it, Cleo. I couldn’t stop that damn drunk driver. I’m so sorry, love.”
The machine whirred softly as he prepared the embalming fluid, and he allowed himself a moment to glance back at her. Her face, now peaceful, seemed to listen, as if waiting for him to continue. Etho swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to do this without you. You were always better at the hard stuff. Always knew what to say to the boys, always knew how to fix things. I don’t.”
His voice broke, and he clenched his jaw, willing himself to keep going. He wiped his eyes quickly with his sleeve before returning to his work. “But I’ll try, Cleo. For them. For you. I’ll try to keep us together, even if it feels like I’m falling apart.”
The room was quiet except for the gentle hum of the embalming machine and the sound of his steady, practiced movements. Etho knew he couldn’t stop the grief from creeping in, but as long as he kept talking to her, it felt like she was still there, listening, guiding him as she always had.
Etho stood motionless for a moment, staring down at her still form as the room's fluorescent hum filled the silence. His gloved hands hovered over the delicate tools arranged meticulously on the metal tray beside him. He had done this procedure countless times, his hands steady and precise, but now they trembled with a hesitation he couldn’t quite shake.
His gaze dropped to Cleo’s neck, the soft curve that once held her warmth and laughter, now pale and lifeless.
He inhaled sharply, his chest tightening, and then slowly exhaled, trying to steady himself. “Alright, Cleo,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Just one more thing. I’ll do my best, I promise.”
Carefully, Etho reached for the scalpel, the familiar weight cold in his hand. He leaned closer, his movements deliberate and slow, as if rushing might disturb her peace. He rested two fingers gently against her neck, feeling for the spot where he’d need to make the incision.
It was a practiced motion, but it felt wrong this time, unbearably intimate.
“This part’s always tricky,” he murmured, as if explaining his process to her. “You used to roll your eyes when I talked about it, remember? Said I was too much of a perfectionist.” His lips quirked into the faintest of smiles before it faded, swallowed by the grief weighing him down.
With a steadying breath, Etho pressed the scalpel to her skin. The blade was razor-sharp, and it glided through the pale surface with ease, revealing the faint blue line of her carotid artery beneath. He froze for a moment, staring at the small incision, his chest tightening with a pang of guilt.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. Sorry I couldn’t stop it. You deserved better, Cleo. You deserved—” His words faltered, and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus.
He set the scalpel aside and reached for the embalming needle, its slender, hollow design glinting under the harsh light. Gently, with the utmost care, he inserted it into the incision, threading it into the artery with a precision born of years of practice. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was violating something sacred.
“The boys, Cleo,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he connected the tubing to the embalming machine. “They’re struggling. Bdubs won’t stop saying you’re going to come back. That it’s all some big mistake. And Scar... he won’t even look at me.”
He glanced at her face, still and serene, her lips softly closed. “I don’t blame him,” he admitted, adjusting the tubing and checking the flow. “I don’t think he knows how to handle this. Hell, I don’t know how to handle this. You were always the glue, the one who kept us all together.”
The embalming machine hummed to life, a steady, rhythmic sound that filled the room. Etho watched as the embalming fluid began to flow, replacing her blood with the preservative solution. The pinkish fluid coursed through the tubing, disappearing into her body, restoring a faint color to her skin.
“It’s working,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly. “You’d laugh at me for saying that, wouldn’t you? ‘Of course, it’s working, Etho, you’ve done this a thousand times.’” He chuckled softly, though it sounded more like a sob. “But it’s different with you, Cleo. It’s always going to be different with you.”
As the process continued, Etho reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face, his gloved hand lingering for a moment. “I miss you,” he said softly. “I miss your voice, your laugh, the way you’d call me out on my nonsense. I don’t know how to do this without you.”
The room fell quiet again, save for the low hum of the machine and the occasional sound of his steady breaths. Etho stayed there, by her side, pouring his love and sorrow into every careful movement, every whispered word, determined to honor her in the only way he knew how.
Etho’s hands were steady, the familiar rhythm of his work grounding him as he carefully monitored the flow of embalming fluid into Cleo’s body. The hum of the machine filled the room, blending with his soft murmurs. He talked to her as he always did, his voice low and gentle. “Almost done, love. Just a little more. I know you’d hate this, but I want you to look perfect for the boys. They need that, you know?”
As the final step approached, he exhaled slowly, preparing to remove the embalming needle from her carotid artery. His gloved fingers gently gripped the tubing, ensuring the transition was as smooth and precise as possible. His focus was absolute, every movement deliberate, but then—something changed.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, a shiver running down his spine. Etho froze mid-motion, his breath hitching.
The room felt colder, the sterile air thick with an inexplicable tension. Slowly, he turned his eyes to her face, and his heart stuttered in his chest.
He swore he saw it—her eyes.
Those beautiful, piercing green eyes that had always held a spark of mischief and warmth. They blinked. Just once, but it was enough to send a jolt of panic through him.
“No,” he whispered to himself, his voice shaky. “That’s not... no. I’m just tired. It’s the light playing tricks.”
But his rationalization faltered as he saw her lips begin to part, a slow, deliberate motion. His breath came in short gasps as he stepped back slightly, the needle slipping from her flesh with a faint squelch. Her mouth moved, not just slack from death, but with purpose—as though she were trying to speak.
“Cleo?” he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. His gloved hands hovered near her face, unsure whether to reach out or retreat.
Her lips moved again, but no sound emerged.
Etho’s chest tightened as he stared at her, his mind racing. This can’t be happening. She’s gone. I drained her blood. I replaced it with embalming fluid. She’s dead.
Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was alive—that she was looking at him, trying to tell him something. His heart pounded in his chest as his mind wavered between denial and desperate hope.
“Cleo,” he repeated, his voice cracking. He leaned closer, his hands trembling. “Is it... is it you?”
Silence.
The hum of the machine seemed deafening now, a cruel reminder of the reality he refused to fully accept. He stared at her, searching her face for any sign, any confirmation that what he thought he saw was real.
But there was nothing.
Her eyes remained open, her lips still, her body as lifeless as it had been when he began the procedure.
Etho let out a shaky breath, stumbling back a step. “It’s not real,” he muttered to himself, gripping the edge of the table to steady his shaking legs. “It’s just grief. I’m imagining things.”
But as he turned away, his heart still hammering, he couldn’t shake the image from his mind: the blink of her eyes, the movement of her lips, the sensation that Cleo—his Cleo—had been trying to speak to him.
And for the first time in years, Etho felt truly afraid.
Etho carefully capped the last bottle of embalming fluid, his hands still trembling as he placed it back on the shelf. The sterile, chemical smell of the room was overpowering, mingling with the cold metallic scent that seemed to cling to his gloves. His gaze kept flickering back to her form, delicately laid out on the table, her stillness both peaceful and unnerving.
The tools he had used were cleaned and arranged neatly on the metal tray, but he worked slower than usual, unable to focus.
That moment—the blink, the movement of her lips—played on a loop in his mind. He tried to dismiss it, telling himself it was just the strain of grief and exhaustion, but the hairs on the back of his neck refused to lie flat, and his chest felt tight with unease.
As he turned back to glance at her, intending to assure himself of her stillness, his breath caught in his throat.
Her head was no longer facing the ceiling. It was turned towards him.
Etho froze, the air suddenly thick and hard to breathe. His blood ran cold, and for a moment, he couldn’t move, his eyes locked on hers—or where her eyes would have been, had they not been lifeless and clouded.
He tried to rationalize it. Body gases. Rigor mortis. A shift in muscle tension. That’s all it is. It happens sometimes. You know this, Etho. You’ve seen it before. But even as he thought it, something about this felt... different.
“Cleo...” His voice was barely audible, little more than a trembling whisper. “Darling, are you okay?”
The words sounded absurd even as they left his lips. Of course, she wasn’t okay. She was dead—long gone, her body discovered far too late to save her. He’d seen the state she was in when she’d arrived, her ribs on the right side nearly exposed, the skin thin and translucent enough to reveal the faint outlines of the organs beneath. Decomposition had already begun its inevitable work before he’d started the embalming process.
And yet...
Her head was turned towards him, angled just so, as though she were looking at him. Etho stepped closer, his legs shaky, and leaned down slightly to inspect her face. Her lips were still, her eyes half-closed in the same position they had been before. Nothing about her expression had changed.
But that head—he was sure it had moved.
He clenched his jaw, his heart thundering in his chest. “It’s just your imagination,” he muttered under his breath, his voice unsteady. “You’re tired, Etho. You’re grieving. It’s nothing.”
But as he straightened up, something deep inside him whispered otherwise. His gloved hands fidgeted at his sides, and he couldn’t bring himself to look away. The room seemed colder, the fluorescent lights harsher, casting long shadows across her form.
He ran a hand over his face, the latex glove dragging uncomfortably against his skin. “If you’ve got something to say, love,” he murmured, half-joking, half-pleading, “now would be the time.”
The silence that followed was deafening. The hum of the embalming machine had stopped, leaving only the faint buzz of the lights and the sound of his own unsteady breathing. Etho took a cautious step back, his gaze never leaving her face.
The logical part of his mind screamed at him to finish tidying up and leave, but he couldn’t.
Something about her—something about the way her head had turned—kept him rooted to the spot, a cold sweat breaking out along his back.
And then, in the stillness of the room, he thought he saw it again: a faint twitch at the corner of her lips, as if she were trying to smile—or speak.
Etho froze, the scalpel he’d been wiping clattering onto the metal tray with a sharp clang. His mouth fell open beneath his medical mask, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. He stared at her, unable to move, unable to think, as her lips—those soft, familiar lips he’d kissed a thousand times—twitched and moved.
And then, her voice.
“Are you always this slow and delicate with corpses?”
The words hit him like a physical blow. That voice, rich with sarcasm and that unmistakable teasing lilt, was unmistakably hers. Cleo.
“No,” he whispered hoarsely, his body trembling as he took a step back. His knees nearly buckled, but he caught himself on the edge of the table, gripping it with white-knuckled force. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. They were gone. Drained of blood, embalmed, lifeless.
But there she was.
A smirk tugged at their lips, twisting their face into a grotesque yet horrifyingly familiar expression. Her clouded green eyes, though empty of life, seemed to glimmer with mischief as she tilted her head, her neck audibly cracking in the motion.
“I’m jealous, really, dear,” she continued, her voice light and mocking, though tinged with something darker. “Who knew you’d have a stiffy for a stiff in front of you?”
Her body moved, the unnatural motion of their shoulders rising as they arms lifted stiffly, like a marionette on strings. Etho’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as he watched her sit upright. The sound of her ribs shifting against one another, a faint wet pop of decomposed flesh pulling free, sent a wave of nausea crashing through him.
Her right side, where her translucent skin exposed her ribs and the darkened organs beneath, stretched grotesquely as she twisted her torso to face him fully. Etho’s hands trembled, his gloves creaking with the pressure of his grip on the table.
“This isn’t happening,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. But the room felt too real, the smell of chemicals and decay too vivid to be a dream. His eyes darted to the machines, the tools, anywhere but their face, but her movements drew him back.
Cleo tilted her head again, her smirk widening. “What’s the matter, love? Cat got your tongue?” she teased, her voice dripping with morbid amusement.
Etho’s heart raced, his pulse thundering in his ears. This wasn’t possible. They were embalmed. Her blood was gone, replaced with chemicals. Their body had been cold, unmoving, lifeless. He had prepared her himself.
And yet...
Her fingers twitched, curling slowly into fists before stretching outward, the motion jerky and unnatural. The way her body moved was wrong—stiff, mechanical, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. But her expression, that teasing smirk, was pure Cleo.
“Cleo...” he choked out, his voice trembling. “You’re not... this isn’t real.”
“Oh, Etho,” she crooned, leaning forward slightly, their head lolling unnaturally to one side. Her green eyes seemed to glint with something cruel, something that wasn’t entirely her. “You’re always so serious. Lighten up! You’re the one who brought me here, after all. Didn’t you want me to stay?”
Her words sent a shiver down his spine, cold and sharp as a knife. Etho’s mind raced, trying to rationalize what was happening, but nothing made sense. He was certain—so certain—he wasn’t hallucinating.
And yet, as they slowly swung their legs over the side of the table, the sound of her flesh scraping against the metal, he found himself unable to move, paralyzed by the impossible reality unfolding before him.
Etho’s throat tightened as he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his medical mask. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, no matter how much his body screamed at him to run, to do something. The corpse of his late wife—Cleo—sat upright on the mortuary table, her movements jerky and unnatural, like some macabre puppet brought to life.
Her head tilted to the side, the motion accompanied by a sickening crack as her neck shifted too far, her empty green eyes fixing on him with an expression that sent icy dread coursing through his veins. Her lips, those soft, familiar lips he’d kissed a thousand times, parted again, and the sound of her voice—her voice—cut through the oppressive silence.
“What’s the matter, love?” they drawled, their tone dripping with sarcasm and that teasing lilt he knew so well. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or... something worse.”
Etho’s chest heaved as he struggled to breathe, his gloved hands gripping the edge of the steel table behind him. He could feel the sweat pooling at the base of his neck, the hairs on his arms standing on end as if the very air around her had changed, charged with something unnatural.
“You... you’re not real,” he stammered, his voice trembling. The words felt hollow, even to him. She was there, unmistakably there, her pallid, embalmed skin glinting faintly under the fluorescent lights. The jagged tear in her side, where her ribs were exposed and her organs glistened beneath a translucent layer of decayed flesh, shifted grotesquely with each small movement.
“Not real?” they repeated, their lips curling into a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach their lifeless eyes. “Oh, Etho, I’m hurt. Really. Is this how you treat all your corpses, or am I just special?”
Her laughter bubbled up, a chilling, hollow sound that echoed in the sterile mortuary. Etho’s stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as he watched her swing her legs over the edge of the table. The sound of her flesh sliding against the cold metal sent a shiver through him, her stiff, jerky motions wholly unnatural.
“You shouldn’t be... you can’t be—” he tried to speak, but his words faltered as she raised a hand, the motion slow and deliberate. Her fingers curled and uncurled, the joints cracking loudly, as though testing the limits of her reanimated body.
“Can’t be what, darling?” they interrupted, their tone light but laced with something sinister. “Alive? Talking to you? Sitting here like this?” She gestured vaguely at herself, her smirk widening. “Well, surprise! It looks like I am.”
Her body shifted again, her torso twisting with an audible pop as she leaned forward. Etho’s breath hitched, his mind screaming at him to move, to do something, but he was frozen, rooted to the spot by a mixture of terror and disbelief.
“You’ve always been so delicate, Etho,” Cleo continued, her voice tinged with mockery. “Always so careful, so precise. It’s charming, really. But I have to wonder...” She leaned closer, her lips pulling back to reveal teeth that were far too perfect for the state of her decayed flesh. “Was it hard for you? To cut into me, to drain me? Did you hesitate?”
Etho’s knees nearly buckled as she spoke, her words slicing through him like a blade. This couldn’t be happening. She was gone. He had prepared her body himself, drained her blood, replaced it with embalming fluid, and yet here she was—moving, talking, taunting him.
Their head tilted again, their smirk widening as though they could read the panic etched across his face. “Oh, come on, love. Don’t tell me you’re scared of little old me.” their tone darkened, their voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper. “You should be.”
Etho’s heart pounded against his ribcage, each beat echoing like a drum in his ears. He wanted to believe this was a hallucination, some twisted manifestation of his grief, but the weight of her presence, the chill in the air, felt far too real.
As she slid off the table with a wet, nauseating thud, her bare feet hitting the cold tile floor, Etho finally found his voice, though it was little more than a hoarse whisper. “Cleo... what are you?”
She smiled, her green eyes glinting with something dark and unnatural. “Oh, Etho,” she purred, taking a step closer, her movements still unnervingly stiff. “I’m exactly what you made me.”
Etho’s mind raced, fragments of logic and panic colliding in a maelstrom of disbelief. He wasn’t a necromancer; he didn’t reanimate corpses. That was absurd. His job was rooted in science, precision, and reality. He had her death records, the meticulous documentation that laid out every grim detail of her demise. Pneumothorax from the crash. Decomposition beginning before her body had even reached him.
He had embalmed her. He had drained her blood.
And yet, here she was.
Cleo stood before him, the translucence of her skin a stark contrast to the vibrant woman he remembered. Her ribs protruded grotesquely where her flesh had begun to degrade, the jagged edges of her exposed side barely holding together the mess of organs visible beneath. Her movements were jerky, stiff, but undeniably purposeful as she stepped closer to him.
Etho’s gloved hands trembled as he reached up instinctively, as if to ward her off, but his feet stayed rooted to the cold tile floor. His mind screamed at him to run, to do something, but his body refused to comply.
“Cleo...” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of her name. “This... this isn’t possible. I—”
Before he could finish, she silenced him in a way he never thought he’d experience again. Her hands, cold and clammy, cupped his face, the rubber of his medical mask crinkling under her touch. Her lips, icy and impossibly soft, pressed against his in a kiss so familiar it shattered what little resolve he had left.
For a moment, the world stood still. The sterile hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant ticking of the embalming machine—all of it faded into silence.
Her kiss wasn’t rough or desperate. It was gentle, filled with a love and adoration that was unmistakably Cleo. It was the way she’d kissed him a thousand times before, in the quiet moments they’d shared as husband and wife. But now, her lips were as cold as death, their chill seeping through the thin layer of his mask and into his very bones.
Etho’s heart pounded, a cacophony of fear and longing. He wanted to pull away, to recoil from the impossibility of her touch, but he couldn’t. His body betrayed him, his trembling hands hovering near her shoulders, unsure whether to push her away or pull her closer.
When she finally broke the kiss, her smirk returned, the corners of her lips curling in that familiar, teasing way that was uniquely hers.
“Still as slow as ever,” she murmured, her voice low and filled with that same sarcastic edge. Her green eyes—clouded, lifeless—seemed to search his face, and for a brief moment, he swore he saw a flicker of warmth, a hint of the woman he’d loved so deeply.
Etho’s breath hitched as he stared at her, his chest heaving beneath the weight of her impossible presence. “Cleo,” he choked out, his voice barely audible. “How... how are you...?”
Her smile widened, but it was different now—darker, almost predatory. She tilted her head, her fingers trailing down the sides of his mask, her touch sending shivers down his spine. “Oh, love,” she said softly, her voice dripping with both affection and something far more sinister. “Does it really matter? I’m here. We’re together again.”
Etho’s stomach twisted as her words settled over him like a suffocating fog. The logic that had always grounded him crumbled under the weight of the impossible truth before him. She shouldn’t be here.
She shouldn’t be alive.
And yet, she was.
Etho’s mind felt like it was spiraling, caught in a whirlpool of panic and confusion. His chest was heaving, his hands shaking as if trying to rid themselves of the sensation of her—of Cleo. He could still feel the ghostly imprint of her lips on his, cold and unnervingly alive, and his body refused to obey him. His thoughts clashed like waves, each one crashing against the other, demanding answers.
Surely this wasn’t normal. Surely this wasn’t real.
Cleo wasn’t alive. She couldn’t be. She had been dead for days. Pneumothorax. A car crash. The embalming.
His hands trembling as he’d drawn the needle, administered the chemicals, ensured her body was still and peaceful—only to watch her sit upright, cold and alive in ways that defied logic.
But the kiss lingered.
Her lips were ice cold, unyielding, and yet they had touched his own with such familiarity, such unmistakable love, that his body had betrayed him in the most visceral way. His mask felt damp, the faint taste of chemical antiseptic mingling with the remnants of his panic, his disbelief. And yet, her lips lingered in his mind, the sensation like a memory brought into sharp, impossible focus.
Was this ethical? No. Of course not. Nothing about this was ethical.
Etho had studied death. He had studied bodies, embalming techniques, the physiology of a corpse in rigor mortis. He had seen children, the elderly, infants. He had performed his work with precision and care, silencing his emotions, divorcing himself from sentimentality.
But nothing had prepared him for this.
The sensation of her cold, dead lips pressing against his own lingered as if branded into him, and his breath came in short, shallow gasps. His hands gripped his mask tighter, his gloved fingers trembling as though trying to scrub her touch away.
Was this necrophilia? His chest burned at the thought, ashamed, confused.
His logical mind wanted to scream the answer: no, it wasn’t necrophilia. But his body didn’t care about logic.
His body was still reeling from the impossible kiss, the impossibility of having his wife—dead, reanimated—alive again in a way that no textbook could explain, no science could dissect.
But she wasn’t just alive. She was active.
Their body was up, moving, speaking, and yet their limbs were stiff and unnatural, their movements jerky and mechanical. Their head twisted toward him again, their green eyes glowing faintly beneath the cold, artificial light.
“You look so confused, darling,” she murmured, her voice light, teasing, but layered with something deeper—something he couldn’t place. “You’ve always overthought things, haven’t you?”
Etho’s voice caught in his throat. He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, his body paralyzed as he stared at them—their exposed ribs, the faintly glowing veins beneath her skin, her body unsteady, not quite alive but not entirely dead, either. They were moving, speaking, breathing, as if all the laws of death and science had shattered before him.
“Don’t worry, love,” she continued, her smirk growing as she took a slow step toward him. The sound of her skeletal-like joints creaking in that unnatural movement sent another spike of terror into him. “You’ll get used to it.”
His body couldn’t keep up. His breathing came faster. His vision swam as panic clawed at him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He had spent years in this profession, dealing with death and preparation, certain he knew every chemical, every procedure, every possible outcome.
But now he felt like a small, fragile thing—completely helpless, completely undone.
“You’re here with me now,” They said, and their voice took on an eerie, melodic tone, as though mocking his inability to pull himself together. “And that’s all that matters.”
He backed away, step by step, his hands trembling, his knees weak. His mind screamed at him to deny it, to run, to check her body again, to find the logic in this nightmare. But his legs felt weak, his voice failed him, and all he could do was stare as she moved closer, her body limber and unnatural, her skin pale and stretched, her green eyes alive in a way that should have belonged only to the living.
What had he done?
His mind grasped at the chemicals. Had he miscalculated something? A compound? An imbalance? He had assumed certainty, science, control. His life had always been structured by science and certainty, but now those walls felt fragile, broken, shattered under the weight of Cleo’s presence.
But how could he explain this? Her words, her smirk, the sensation of her cold lips on his own—it felt real. Too real.
Was she alive? Or was this some kind of monstrous, macabre trick, a result of his grief, his broken mind shattering under stress?
Etho couldn’t answer, but as they took another slow step toward him, the sound of their body cracking, their dead fingers reaching toward him, he knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore it. Not now.
Not ever.
Etho’s mind whirred, panic twisting in his gut as his feet skidded back across the cold tile. His breathing came in sharp, gasping pants, each breath threatening to tear him apart. His thoughts tumbled over themselves like a storm: What the hell was happening? What did this mean? What could he do?
His hands fumbled as he reached for the nearby counter, gripping at anything solid, any object that could give him some anchor in this nightmare. His gloves were slick with sweat, and he could feel his pulse pounding in his fingers as he clenched the edge of the cold metal counter.
His first instinct was to think logically, to get control of this situation. But nothing about this was logical. Nothing about Cleo sitting upright on the table, their skeletal body moving in unnatural ways with that cold, teasing smirk on their lips, made sense.
He couldn’t unfile her death report. The death certificate had already been sent, buried in the archives with the official records of the car crash. The autopsy had been completed.
The paperwork had been signed, sealed, and approved by his employer. There were protocols to follow, forms to adhere to, a neat, clinical process that had always defined the finality of death. And yet, none of it mattered now.
Cleo was here. She was alive.
No, reanimated. That’s what this was. She had to be.
Some chemical reaction, a mistake, an accidental mix of embalming agents and gases in her body. Etho cursed himself as he tried to piece it together. But how could a mistake cause this? How could his mistakes make her sit upright, press cold lips against his, speak to him, taunt him?
His hands grasped for the clipboard near the table, desperate for some kind of plan, something to calm the storm in his head. His vision was swimming as he pulled it closer, staring at their name scrawled across their forms. Cleo Vivifi—cause of death: pneumothorax.
But now she was here, alive in a way no science could explain. He couldn’t email his boss and say, "Hey, my wife’s alive. She’s standing here in my mortuary."
He turned back toward them, his breath hitching again as he took in their unnatural movement. She was standing now, completely upright on the table, and her dead-green eyes were locked onto him. His hands trembled harder, fingers gripping the clipboard as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
“Think, think, think,” he muttered, his voice low and strained as his mind raced. He could feel his muscles shaking, adrenaline coursing through his body. His eyes darted to the nearby cabinet of tools—needles, chemical vials, embalming syringes. But how could he use any of them? What would they do?
Maybe he could sedate them, put them down again. Not with death this time, but with chemical agents, something strong enough to halt her unnatural movements. But that was a risk, wasn’t it? What if she fought it? What if this was irreversible? What if the chemicals would only feed whatever dark, impossible process had brought her back to this state?
Etho hesitated, his hand hovering over the cabinet. His voice came out hoarse again. “Cleo, stay still. Please, stay still—”
But it was too late. She had already taken another step toward him. The sound of her body moving sent a crackling noise into the air, a sickening creak of flesh and bones and improperly preserved ligaments. Her smile widened as she closed the distance between them, her voice low and teasing again.
“I can see the fear in your eyes, love,” she whispered, her voice sending sharp needles of dread into his very soul. “You think you can fix this? You think you can stop me?”
Her words cut into him, lacerating the fragile thread of hope that had kept him momentarily grounded. Her hand reached out toward him again, bone-cold and rigid, and he could see the veins stretching beneath her skin as if they had only recently come back to life.
He scrambled backward, knocking over a bottle of embalming fluid in his haste. The glass shattered on the floor with a sickening sound, liquid pooling beneath his feet, sharp and chemical. His heart was beating so hard it felt as if it might burst.
“Please, Cleo—please—” he tried to protest, but his voice failed him. His legs felt weak, unsteady, and his breaths came faster. His mind was clouding again with panic.
What could he do? What could stop them?
Her smirk was so cold, so sharp, as she continued toward him, closer and closer, her body unsteady yet fully alive in a way that mocked his science, his certainty, his professional detachment.
“What happens next, darling,” they said in a whisper, their voice so close now he could feel the cold of her presence, “is entirely up to you.”
Etho’s hands clenched the clipboard tighter. His breaths came faster, and his mind spun. His eyes darted to the wall, the chemical cabinets, the drawers, any exit, any possible escape. His mind raced with all the scientific explanations he had clung to for years, all the paperwork, all the chemical analyses, but none of it fit.
He was backed into a corner, and the icy, cold hand reaching for him was all the confirmation he needed:
He was out of options.
The thought came crashing into him like a hammer to his chest, sharp and brutal: their boys.
Bdubs and Scar. Their children. His sons.
What would he tell them if Cleo came home with him? How could he ever explain this? His hands trembled as he gripped the clipboard harder, panic crawling up his throat. His heart felt like it might explode, the weight of impending, inescapable decisions threatening to crush him.
They had already mourned her.
The funeral was planned to be a quiet affair, as far as funerals could be. He had stood by the graveside he'd picked out beneath Cleo's favourite willow tree, his arms wrapped around his sons, watching the earth where it would swallow her remains. He had tried his best to be strong for them, to give them stability in the wake of loss, to assure them that time would heal. That death was a natural part of life.
But now?
Now death wasn’t final. Now death was broken, stitched together with chemicals and impossible reanimation.
Cleo wasn’t dead anymore, not entirely. She was here, standing, moving, alive in some twisted, unnatural way.
What would they think?
How could he explain to his children that their mother—who they had mourned, planned to bury, grieved—had returned, but not as herself? What would they say when they looked into their cold, dead eyes, saw their body writhing and speaking as if nothing had ever happened?
They had already done the first few stages of grief together: denial, anger, bargaining, and sadness. They had cried. They had screamed into the cold winds of the cemetery. Scar had tried to be brave, but his voice had cracked as he whispered memories of her. Bdubs had wandered through their home aimlessly, unable to shake the hollow sense of absence, unable to cope with the absence of her voice and touch.
They had planned the burial together. It had been painful but necessary. Their home had become a hushed, empty space afterward, echoes of laughter and warmth now reduced to quiet, broken memories.
But how could he return to them with this? With Cleo?
He imagined them running to her when they saw her—running to their mother, only to find her corpse-like, eyes too faded, movements too sharp, too alive, yet not alive enough. His stomach turned at the thought, bile rising in his throat.
He imagined Bdubs looking up at her, his small, hopeful face, only to see death staring back at him. He imagined Scar’s trembling hand reaching toward her, desperate for the mother they had lost, only to touch cold skin, unnervingly smooth, alien, lifeless, yet real.
Would they ever forgive him? Could they? Could he live with himself knowing that the fragile fabric of their recovery would be torn apart again if Cleo came back with him?
No. No, he couldn’t.
But what choice did he have? What could he do? She was here. Alive in a way that no science could explain, no reason could resolve.
Etho’s chest was tight, and his vision swam as he tried to sort through his thoughts. His mind was a labyrinth of fear, grief, and ethical despair. Every option felt like it would lead to destruction, heartbreak, or madness. He thought of his sons, their laughter, their small voices, their soft, fragile hands.
How could he protect them from this?
But how could he leave her here, in this cold, unnatural state?
The question gnawed at him, the weight of the answer looming over his thoughts. His hands were shaking harder now, and his entire body felt cold, too cold, as if some invisible weight had pressed into his bones.
He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to see Cleo’s corpse-like figure enter their home. To explain their presence. To watch their children’s fragile hearts break all over again.
But then again, could he imagine a life without her? Could he imagine leaving her here, alone, knowing this nightmare could haunt him forever?
His breaths came faster as his mind spiraled again, and his hand shook as it gripped the clipboard tighter. His heart felt like it would shatter under the weight of all the possibilities, every horrifying outcome stacking up like a mountain.
What would he tell them?
He could already hear their voices in his head. Scar’s quiet sobs as he whispered, “Mum?”
Bdubs’s hopeful smile as he saw their shadow in the doorway.
He closed his eyes tightly, shaking, unable to escape the crushing weight of his choices, unable to find clarity in the depths of his own fear and despair.
He had no answers. Only questions. And the longer he stood here, trembling in the cold glow of fluorescent light, the closer he felt to losing himself entirely.
Cleo let out a slow, hollow sigh, her head tilting to the side as she observed Etho’s trembling form. His hands were white and shaky as they gripped the clipboard, his shoulders heaving with each uneven breath. His voice was quiet, broken, caught somewhere between logic and despair, and she could see how much the weight of his fear was unraveling him.
Her form was cold, skeletal in appearance, but the slight shift of her shoulders and the way her dead lips formed the shape of a sigh seemed human enough, enough to stir a sense of comfort, or at least an attempt at it. Despite the impossibility of her presence, her voice came out soft, low, and smooth, the kind of sound she would use when soothing him in their life together.
“Oh, darling,” they said gently, stepping toward him, their movements slow and deliberate. Her bones creaked beneath her skin with every motion, and the sound sent another chill crawling down his spine, but her voice was steady, soothing. “I can feel it. You’re so afraid.”
Her green eyes glimmered faintly under the pale, fluorescent light as she watched his expression twist further, his body tensed and rigid. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t bear the sensation of her gaze, couldn’t find the strength to respond. His breath came in short gasps, and his shoulders shook harder.
“I don’t want this for you, love,” she continued, her voice calm, despite the unnatural, skeletal appearance of her. “I don’t want to make this harder for you. But I’m here.”
He flinched, but she kept her voice low, soothing, weaving itself into the air between them like a song. She could feel his grief, his terror, and even his love, buried under layers of panic. She could see him struggling, trying to sort through impossible questions, and yet she didn’t resent him for his fear. Not now. Not when they were both caught in this twisted, unknowable space together.
“Don’t worry about the boys,” she whispered, her words slicing through the haze in his mind. Her voice felt almost ethereal in the cold air of the room. “They’ll be okay. They’ll learn to heal in their own way.”
Etho’s breath hitched. His gaze was fixed on the counter, his body tense. His voice barely came out when he tried to speak, his throat dry.
“How can I explain this to them?” he croaked, the words barely audible over the sound of his panic. His voice cracked, broken and hopeless. His eyes darted toward her for a moment but quickly looked away, unwilling to face her fully. “You shouldn’t be here, Cleo. You can’t be here.”
She stepped a little closer, her form unnervingly human despite its skeletal edges. Her hand—cold, pale, and translucent—reached out toward him but stayed just a few inches away, as if respecting his distance, his fear.
“I know,” she said, her voice still steady, calm. “I don’t belong here, not in this form, not like this. I don’t know how I came back, or why, but I promise you, I’m not trying to hurt you.”
Her words, layered with impossible warmth despite her form, hit him harder than he cared to admit. She was here, a grotesque mockery of life, but there was no malice in her voice. No anger. Just an aching kind of softness that brought him back to the days when he could listen to her voice without fear, when her hand would squeeze his shoulder and bring him peace.
He closed his eyes tightly, fighting the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, trying to drown the voice in his head that screamed at him to run, to stop this, to end it. But he couldn’t. Not when her voice was this real, this grounding.
“I—” he started, but his voice cracked again. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders shaking, and tried to find some kind of strength. “I can’t see them like this, Cleo. I can’t… see you like this.”
Cleo’s face tilted again, and for a moment, her lips twitched into something that could have almost been a smile. But it was fleeting, fragile, almost imperceptible.
“I understand, love,” she whispered. “I do. But they love you. And they love me, in their own way. You’ve done so well, trying to hold it together for them. Don’t let fear or doubt tear you apart.”
The sound of their voice was like a soft, aching reminder of the life they had shared, of the love they had built, now twisted and fractured in this horrible, unrecognizable form. His hands trembled harder as he tried to steady them, trying to push away the overwhelming weight of it all.
She could feel his struggle, the sheer terror of what this meant, but she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t resentful. She was broken, reanimated, but she still had him. That much was certain.
“Take your time, darling,” she said. Her voice came with finality now, even if it wasn’t harsh or cruel. It carried weight, though—you’ll find your way. “We have time.”
Time.
The word hung in the air, a hollow, ominous thing, full of uncertainty and the weight of unanswered questions. Etho felt it pull at him, dragging him into the unknown, and yet somehow, her voice, her presence, her sorrow, gave him just enough stability to stand in the face of his terror.
He knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. But for now, her words lingered like fragile warmth, an impossible promise of understanding in the face of despair.
And as his breath came slower, trembling, his grip on the clipboard loosened just a little. She wasn’t gone. Not completely. And maybe, in some unfathomable way, that would give him the strength to face whatever came next.