Chapter 3: The Funeral
1118 Words
After arranging his own affairs, the detective lying on the bed closed his eyes. Shade pursed his lips, waited for a moment, then carefully withdrew his hand and checked for any sign of breath or pulse.
"Dead?"
He couldn't believe that the man had died so easily, and it had indeed been almost exactly ten minutes.
Before Shade could decide on his next action, a sudden flash of black light swept across the corpse's face. A chill ran down his spine, and an overwhelming wave of terror engulfed him.
But as quickly as it appeared, the black light vanished into the air.
With the disappearance of the dark glow, the corpse, once emaciated to the point of resembling a starvation victim, began to fill out. It was as if someone were inflating it from within, restoring it to a more natural appearance.
"Normal? What part of this is normal? What in the world is going on?"
Shade glanced uneasily around the silent room. His anxiety didn't stem from sharing the space with a corpse, but from the unfamiliar environment. This world was nothing like the one he had known. He had glimpsed a sliver of its mysterious and dangerous truth.
A woman's voice echoed in his mind once more, as if to remind him that something about this place was deeply unnatural:
"You have come into contact with the 'Whispers.'"
"What contact? What whispers? Could you explain more clearly?"
But the voice gave no further explanation.
"Whispers" had been one of the so-called "Four Elements of Mystery" that the detective had mentioned before his death. Clearly, these so-called "Relics" and "Whispers" were the keys to understanding the cause of his demise.
Despite the unsettling mystery surrounding the corpse, Shade found himself surprisingly calm.
"If this is all some elaborate joke, it would be a relief."
He wished for it to be a performance, but logic told him otherwise.
After a moment of silent contemplation by the bedside, he cautiously circled the four-poster bed to the window. He drew back the heavy curtains, allowing the dim morning sunlight to filter through the foggy glass. The hazy light seemed to temporarily dispel his unease.
"Morning already?"
The thick curtains had made him think it was still night.
Knock, knock, knock.
A sudden knocking at the door startled him. He instinctively released the curtain but quickly grabbed it again, fully drawing it open. Squinting against the light, he peered outside. Below, the street was shrouded in mist. There was no time to admire the steam-era scenery. First, he looked down to confirm the presence of a hearse, with a somber-looking man standing by it.
"He knew the exact time of his death, so the hearse arrived right on schedule."
Muttering to himself, Shade opened the bedroom door. The adjacent living room had the unmistakable style of a detective's office, with coal gas pipes climbing the walls, handcrafted wooden furniture, and scattered papers and books.
A small chalkboard hung on the wall, a formal tea table and upholstered sofa arranged beneath it. The curtains here remained open, letting the muted daylight cast long shadows across the floor. Dust particles swirled in the air, drifting lazily through the beams of light.
Shade unlatched the cold bolts and security chain. Outside, a dim staircase spiraled downwards. Another door stood next to his own, suggesting a shared second floor, reminiscent of Victorian-era apartments.
Without finding any electric lights, Shade descended cautiously. Every step on the creaking stairs made his heart pound. The suffocating darkness, coupled with his overactive imagination, made him feel as if unseen eyes were watching from the shadows.
Upon reaching the ground floor, he saw that the corridor leading further inside had been boarded up like a sealed tomb. Only the entrance hall remained accessible.
"Why seal off the first floor? What is this place?"
Anxious and confused, Shade passed a fallen umbrella, absentmindedly propping it back against the wall. He twisted the valve of a gas lamp, and the flickering flame illuminated the oppressive gloom.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the front door.
A silent old man in a black coat stood outside. A symbol of intertwined leaves hung around his neck. Behind him, the gray sky loomed, and thick fog lingered. The old man’s gaze was as cold and heavy as his voice.
"Shade Hamilton?"
He spoke in the same language as the deceased detective—the so-called Delarion tongue.
"Yes."
Shade nodded stiffly, motioning for the indifferent old man and his weary-looking assistant to follow him upstairs.
The assistant, a middle-aged man with a sullen face, stayed silent, leading the horse that drew the hearse.
Shade guided them to the second floor, into the room marked with a "1." Without a word, the two men confirmed the detective's death, then handed Shade a document to sign—an official form authorizing the body’s transfer to the city’s public cemetery.
The paper bore the seals of the City Public Cemetery Office and the Funeral Committee. At the bottom was a brief prayer for the deceased, the translation of which unsettled Shade.
Though disoriented, Shade realized he could read the language, even if he wasn't accustomed to writing it. Fortunately, the acquired knowledge had granted him that ability as well.
"My name is Shade. The surname Hamilton is fine. But what about a middle name?"
He frowned, uncertain if the deceased had ever chosen a middle name for the body’s original owner.
"Suellen."
The voice whispered once more. The word existed in both the ancient tongue of the woman and the northern Delarion language. It meant "Silver Moon."
"I can use it, but you owe me an explanation."
Shade tried to engage the voice, his heart pounding. It answered calmly:
"It is fate, Outsider. The Silver Moon is your destiny. When you gather the Four Elements and open the door to the extraordinary, the meaning will reveal itself."
Suppressing his apprehension, Shade signed the name: Shade Suellen Hamilton.
With the necessary formalities completed, the body was carried away without further questioning. The hearse soon disappeared into the mist.
"Goodbye, Sparrow Hamilton."
Shade closed the door, standing in the dim entryway for a moment. Then, gathering his resolve, he returned upstairs. Though burdened with unanswered questions, he was now the sole occupant of this strange home.
At least he had a place to stay. And in a world that held both steam technology and supernatural mysteries, that was a starting point.
"I might as well explore this world of the extraordinary. Who could resist the allure of secrets and magic?"
Shade whispered to himself. In response, the woman’s laughter echoed in his mind, like a breeze rustling through a lavender field.
- Writer
