I woke up to a deep sob. To be precise, it is the consciousness that awakens before the action of opening the eyes. The body was heavy, as if filled with lead, surrounded by a damp scent mixed with lilies and old wood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Elena\u2026 she left so suddenly<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This voice is very familiar, it’s Martha who always likes to apply bright pink lipstick at the front desk of the company. She cried uncontrollably, but I could even recognize the strong vanilla scent of her shower gel in my nose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I opened my eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The line of sight was somewhat blurry, but it was enough to clearly see the towering stained glass of the church above. The light was cut into murky blocks and fell onto the open dark wooden coffin in the center. I lay down, looking straight out, and happened to see myself – no, it was another ‘me’, wearing the navy blue suit I had just bought for the quarterly report, quietly lying in the soft white silk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His face turned pale, with no trace of blood on his lips, like a finely crafted wax figure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I suddenly sat up. No one noticed me. The mourners lowered their heads, and in the front row sat my boss, Mr. Hamilton, who was bald. He pressed a handkerchief against the corner of his eye and his shoulders were slightly raised. In the back row were several colleagues with heavy expressions. My gaze swept over them, and finally fell on my own hand – pale but able to grip tightly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Living.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stepped out of the coffin, barefoot on the cold marble floor. The chill emanating from my feet was so real that I instinctively contracted. But still no one looked up. Martha was still crying, tears blurring her delicate eye makeup into two black streams. A young intern with red eyes whispered to the person next to him, “Elena helped me change the plan last week<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I walked around the coffin and approached them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Martha, “I called her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The crying paused for a second, then continued, even louder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Hamilton, “I turned to my boss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn’t stop wiping away his tears, but his brow furrowed even tighter, as if he was still mourning for the company’s quarterly losses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No one can see me. I am like an air or a completely dissipated ghost, the only thing that can prove my existence is the terrifying reality that is clear to my senses – the sweet smell of roses rotting, the coffee stains left on colleagues’ suits, and the slow falling trajectory of dome dust.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A surge of anger mixed with a sense of absurdity surged up. Am I dead? The ‘me’ lying in the coffin did indeed die. Who am I standing here? Is it a consciousness that hasn’t dissipated yet, or something else?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just then, a young man wearing glasses walked in through the side door, holding an open book in his hand. He walked straight through the crowd to the coffin, looked down at the remains of ‘me’, and then glanced up at the mournful faces around him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He sighed, his voice not loud, but like a needle, piercing through the thick silence of the auditorium.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She had a sudden cardiac arrest, “he murmured to himself, as if checking some records,” last Wednesday, at 11:17 pm. The forensic report stated\u2026 arrhythmia caused by overwork<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He closed the book, his gaze fell on the serene face of “me” in the coffin, and whispered, “For thirty-seven consecutive days, I worked an average of sixteen hours a day without any rest days. On the night she fell, she was still editing the fourth edition of the quarterly report PPT. \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The church suddenly fell silent for a moment. The sobbing sound has decreased. Someone awkwardly cleared their throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Hamilton put down his handkerchief, his expression changing from sadness to somewhat unnatural. He spoke dryly, ‘Elena is a very dedicated employee.’<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She’s exhausted, “the man with glasses calmly corrected, his voice devoid of emotion, just stating a fact from a document.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A gust of wind rushed in, causing the candle flame to shake violently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I stood in front of Mr. Hamilton, less than a meter away. He can’t see me. No one can see me. But that man’s words were like a stone, thrown into my stagnant chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thirty seven days. Sixteen hours. PPT\u3002<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I lowered my head and looked at my bare feet, then at the “me” in the coffin who was wearing an expensive suit but would never wake up again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That suit was bought last month with a credit card and divided into twelve installments. I didn’t even have time to wear it to attend any meetings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The window was not tightly closed, the wind squeezed in, and the cold touch brushed against my neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I suddenly moved. My legs and feet have gained strength. I started walking towards the church gate, barefoot stepping on the cold floor tiles, passing through the backs of those who were bowing their heads in mourning but actually had their own thoughts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No one stopped me, no one looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When the hand touched the thick oak door, the door shaft made a long creaking sound. The sunlight outside rushed in, making me squint my eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I turned around and took a glance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Martha was still crying, but her phone screen lit up and flickered under the cover of her black skirt. Mr. Hamilton pressed the handkerchief back into his eyes, but I saw his other hand in his pocket, pressing something, probably an email that needed to be dealt with immediately.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the ‘me’ in the coffin still lay quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pushed open the door and walked into the sunlight outside. The temperature coming from the soles of the feet is warm and very real. For a moment, I felt like my body had become a little lighter, like someone taking off a bag of sand that had been sinking for a long time from their back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I can’t explain what it feels like.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just as the church door slowly closed behind me, I suddenly realized\u2014\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don’t remember why I bought that suit.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I woke up at my own funeral<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":741,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[14],"tags":[18,22],"class_list":["post-740","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-suspense","tag-story","tag-suspense"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/740","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=740"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/740\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":742,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/740\/revisions\/742"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/741"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=740"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=740"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=740"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}