Page 35 of Melancholia

Literally, this is the easiest clue in the entire world, and it’s taken me almost fifteen minutes to figure it out. Well, at least it’s not as bad as the last one. If it were, that would just be embarrassing.

Where are garments changed?

Where are faces restored?

Here.

Right here, in the room I consider myself to be the most at home in. I glance around and keep an eye out for any pieces of paper, going up on my toes so I can reach the top of the cabinets against the wall. I even check my trocar altar, though it is free of any folded-up piece of paper.

It takes another round of the room before I drop to my knees and start crawling.

“That’s attractive,” Andrew remarks from where he leans against the desk with his arms folded. “Good thing no one else is here to see you.”

I roll my eyes up at him but continue on, looking under cabinets and counters, until I sit up and my head finds the lip of the embalming counter with a crack that sends a wave of pain through my skull. A few unpleasant words leave my mouth, and I sit back, hands pressed against my hair while my eyes well with unbidden tears in response to the pain.

“God. This is fucking ridiculous,” I whisper. “Here I am, on the fucking floor of the embalming room, looking for a piece of—” My watery eyes focus on a folded-up square wedged underneath the table’s surface, and with a scornful huff I reach out to pluck it out from its hiding place.

Leave the room of final preparations.

Find the place where strangers become family

for one brief afternoon.

There are chairs but no congregation,

flowers but no garden,

and silence, waiting for someone to speak.

The crack on my head must have done me some good, because I’m up off the floor and out of the embalming room instantly. At a jog, as if I only have a few minutes left even though I’ve got hours, I head to the viewing room.

“Impressive,” my ghostly companion remarks, already there and leaning against the podium on the small, raised dais where coffins are placed for viewing. Today the room is empty, and the lights take a few minutes to warm up after I flip the switch.

“I had to get one done easily, right?” I scoff, feeling confident as I start checking chairs, over and under them, before going to every place in the room that could hide a piece of paper.

In the end, I decide I’m actually an idiot. It takes thirty minutes for me to find the paper, and then another minute to pry it out from under the podium where Andrew is still standing. My head aches, and I reach up a hand to press my palm against where I smacked it on the table. Mentally, I make a note to take the ibuprofen I have back at the desk before unfolding the paper and squinting at it in the soft lighting of the viewing room.

“Surely I have to be almost done,” I whisper to myself. “How many more times can I possibly run through this fucking place looking for paper?”

Some part of me is impressed. I can’t imagine when he could’ve done this, or how he wrote these clues so…perfectly. Belatedly, I remember what Hestia said about them spending a lot of time here when they were teenagers, and I wonder just how much of their teenage years were spent here at Kindred Pines.

Did Amir have a bad time at home?

The thought comes unbidden, but I mentally stomp my foot down on it, squashing the whisper like a bug. I will not sympathize with the killer who’s making my life miserable.

Even if he doesn’t treat me like a child, despite knowing about the ghosts.

“Stop it,” I whisper. “Stop that right now.” I have to blink a few more times, and in the end I leave the viewing room to stand in the lobby to read the paper while trying to leave my swirling thoughts behind me.

Return to where the outside world

meets the house of the departed.

Look not beneath you, where arrivals rest,

nor behind you, where the doors close.

Raise your eyes.