The receptionist greets you with confusion as you stare at the small grey pot full of ash. The floorboard that covered it was left off when your mother hurried away in another fit of tears. That woman was forever crying these days, every time you saw her she was red eyed and slightly drunk judging by the way she swayed about.
You don't quite understand why the receptionist is confused, she didn't see you come in so surely she should understand you're...? She must be new here, she continues to greet you and ask if you're okay and who you're here to see. She understand where you are but not what you are. Probably only seen the customers before, never the residents.
How can you work in one of London's biggest Necropolis and not know a resident on sight? You've seen them train the newer employees, you've seen them train this receptionist yet she doesn't seem to recognise your state of being, or rather your lack thereof. After a few moments of her trying out British and American sign language and three other verbal languages she just politely bows a bit and scuttles off to attend to the actual patrons.
She had no idea what she was talking to. How very peculiar of such a place. An older resident laughs silently and moves towards you at a seasoned and graceful pace. You exchange looks of bewilderment and fondness at her inexperienced dealings with everyone around her.
After a short time she seemed to finally realise why you were out in the first place and hurries over apologising profusely as she gently slides the floorboard over the urn containing your earthly remains and you slip back into the dark nothing with all the other souls, awaiting your mother's next visit.
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