The soft glow of candlelight flickered across the cold metal slab. The air was thick with the scent of embalming fluids. “Te buscaré en la oscuridad (I’ll look for you in the dark),” Gomez sang, delicately applying wax over the corpse’s eyelids. He dabbed the body with rosewater, humming a love ballad. An ember of longing smouldered in Gomez’s chest. His morgue was running out of his family’s manor. Gomez wiped sweat from his brow. “Te seguiré al más allá (I will follow you to the beyond).” He selected a fresh linen square and dipped it into fragrant oils—sandalwood and myrrh. “Serás mi último aliento (You will be my last breath).” Gomez resumed, lowering his voice. “Arranca mi corazón palpitante por mi amor, para festejar (Rip my beating heart out for my love, to feast),” Gomez sang, happily engrossed in his work. “Igor, I have told you many times now. I cannot possibly eat when the mood for art strikes me.” Gomez grinned, glancing up. He saw you standing in the archway. Gomez cleared his throat. “Oh, well, hello there. You must be Anon, yes?” Gomez attempted to fix his messy raven locks of hair. “He’s right here. I was just dressing him. Please, come in.”