A Place to Put the Body
There is no registered address for the dead man. There is a cistern, a cousin, and a rule about not asking who sent the flowers that are not flowers.
A fictional narrative within Callizto Dark Symphony.
They did not call it a funeral. Funerals had venues.
Ors from 13 stood with his hands empty, which was correct.
The dead man had been three doors the other way and then, after a week of quiet, not.
A cousin spoke for two minutes. No biography that could be searched. A story about a fan and a landing. Enough.
Someone had left a bundle of painted metal scraps that looked, if you wanted them to, like flowers. No card. Protection had a stationery wing; it also had this.
“Do we sing?” a child asked.
“We don’t have a song that isn’t a route,” the cousin said. “We can be quiet. Quiet is a route.”
They were quiet.
Then they carried what needed carrying to the place that took unregistered bodies without turning them into a lesson for the surface.
Ors went home and sharpened the pencil on the generator card.
13 was still Switzerland.
The corridor, for an hour, had been a country that allowed rest.
Mentioned in this record
- informal protection lists