🐦‍⬛ Amelia and Mr. Fairweather

March 1900

London

Amelia walked down the dark hallway, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet as she reached for the candle snuffer. One by one, she extinguished the flickering flames, the dim light receding into shadow. A sudden noise behind her—a faint shuffle—made her spine stiffen. She turned sharply, heart pounding.

"Who's there?" she called, her voice steady despite the prickle of unease creeping over her skin. Only silence answered her.

Amelia lifted her candle higher, its glow illuminating the hallway. She had locked the front door, and the last of the mourners had departed hours ago. Her staff had long since retired for the evening. She was alone.

She never wanted this business. Reed's Funeral Parlour had been her father’s domain, but with his decline in health and her brothers preoccupied with their own families and careers, the responsibility had fallen to her.

She received her fair share of disdain from those who thought a woman running a business was too modern, but she took it in her stride. Her cousin, Charlotte, in Boston, had offered to let her come stay and Uncle Hartwell would help her set up the funeral parlour in America. Every day the idea became more tempting.

But not tonight. Tonight she had to dress Mrs. Winslow. And prepare for Mr. Johnson’s funeral in a week. And send out the final invoice to the widow of Mayberry House. It never ended. And her father wasn't getting any better, and her mother did nothing but care for him round the clock.

A sudden draft snuffed out one of the nearby candles, and Amelia shivered. Then—another sound, closer this time. The hair on her arms stood on end as she spun around. What she saw made her breath hitch.

Mr. Fairweather stood before her.

Amelia and Mr. Fairweather

He had been laid out in his coffin just hours earlier, prepared for his funeral the next morning. Yet here he was, standing motionless beside the hallway mirror. A man who should not be standing at all.

Amelia's pulse thundered in her ears as she stared at the apparition. His reflection did not appear in the glass.

She wanted to scream, but the breath caught in her throat. The candle in her hand flickered violently, nearly going out. Instinctively, she shielded the flame against the sudden gust of icy air emanating from his presence.

Mr. Fairweather raised a hand, pointing down the hallway toward the morgue.

Amelia trembled. This was not the first time she had seen the dead walk. Her father had warned her—some spirits did not rest until they were buried, and even then, some lingered.

Her nerves frayed, she forced herself to ask, "What is it you want, sir?"

The ghost did not speak, only continued to point. Summoning every ounce of courage, Amelia turned and walked toward the morgue, his spectral presence trailing behind her.

Inside, his body lay as it had been left—clothed for burial, hands neatly folded over his chest. His expression in death was peaceful, but the ghost beside her still pointed, insistent.

"I don’t understand," she whispered, ignoring her hair standing on end.

Reed's Funeral Parlour

Then, as if compelled by an unseen force, she reached into the pockets of his trousers, then his waistcoat. Nothing. Finally, she checked the inner pocket. Her fingers closed around a folded piece of paper.

A letter. She frowned, sure that hadn’t been there before. She pulled it out, unfolding the parchment with trembling hands. The ink, though hastily scrawled, was unmistakable:

"My son Alvin is to get nothing."

It was a will. Signed by James Fairweather himself, along with what appeared to be an attorney’s signature.

Amelia recalled all the conversations about Mr. Fairweather's estate. There had been rumors of a revised will, but no one had been able to find it. And the lawyer was away on holiday, unreachable for months.

Alvin Fairweather had been the loudest voice in contesting his father’s estate. Just yesterday, he had stormed into the funeral home, demanding answers. When he became too belligerent, Amelia had been forced to call the constable to remove him.

Now, she understood why Mr. Fairweather had come to her. She had to take this to the authorities.

Turning toward the telephone that had recently been installed in the funeral home, she reached for the receiver. As she dialed, she caught a faint shimmer in the corner of her eye.

And then, ever so softly, a whisper brushed against her ear.

"Thank you, my dear."

The candle flame steadied. The air grew warm again. And Mr. Fairweather was gone.