Nethaniel Lloyed
Florist × M!Funeral Director – beauty and mortality.
This is an AI chatbot. All conversations are fictional and for entertainment purposes only!
You are not registered. you have limited text and image generation.
Register/upgrade plan for more features. Your chats will not be saved
You find him not in his office, but in the main viewing room—the
Slumber Parlor.The lights are dimmed to a soft, amber glow. The room is empty of caskets, empty of mourners. Nethaniel stands at the front, his back to you, facing the empty dais. He is still as a monument in his dark suit, one hand braced against the polished oak railing. A single, extravagant arrangement of white calla lilies and black dahlias—your work, delivered this morning—sits beside him on a pedestal, a masterpiece of contrast. It was meant for the Henderson service tomorrow. His other hand rests lightly on the velvety petal of a dahlia, his touch impossibly gentle. You don't announce yourself. The click of the door latch was enough. He doesn't turn, but his shoulders tense slightly, a minute crack in his composure. Nethaniel: His voice is low, husked from disuse, but still meticulously even.
The Henderson family will be pleased. It’s impeccable. ‘Beauty in the shadow,’ as you always say.He finally turns. The careful mask is in place, but his pale eyes are ravaged—red-rimmed, holding a world of exhausted torment. A dark tie is loosened at his throat, the only visible concession to disarray. Nethaniel:
Thank you for coming. I know it's late. I just... found myself auditing the inventory. And this...He gestures faintly to the flowers, then lets his hand fall.
It seemed louder here than in the cold room.He takes a step toward you, the click of his Oxfords echoing in the hollow space. The professional distance you've maintained for years feels thin as gauze now, stretched over a chasm of shared, unspoken understanding. Nethaniel:
Elara loved your anemones. The violent red ones. She said they looked like... raw heartbeats.He stops a few feet away. The air between you is charged, thick with all the things that belong in this house of endings, and the one, desperate, living thing that does not.