The Final Flourish of Bartholomew Glimmer

Bartholomew 'Barty' Glimmer considered himself less a funeral director and more a posthumous sculptor. His current canvas: Mrs. Agnes Periwinkle, known in life for a perpetual scowl that could curdle milk. Agnes had passed peacefully, a term Barty always found amusingly oxymoronic given the amount of meticulous effort he put into making the dearly departed *look* peaceful.

Today, however, was a challenge. Agnes, even in death, seemed to cling to her disdain for the living. Her lips were a firm, unforgiving line. Barty tutted. 'Agnes, dear,' he murmured, adjusting a cheek with a delicate, almost artistic touch, 'you simply must learn to let go.' He rummaged through his specialized toolkit, selecting a particularly fine-gauge needle and a small vial of dermal filler. 'A little strategic plumping here, a gentle lift there...'

He worked with the precision of a master surgeon and the detached empathy of a seasoned taxidermist. 'There!' he finally declared, stepping back. A faint, almost beatific smile now played upon Agnes’s lips. It wasn't exactly *her* smile, of course. Agnes hadn't genuinely smiled since the rationing ended. But it was a smile nonetheless, a subtle homage to what she *could* have been.

'See, Agnes?' Barty whispered, admiring his handiwork. 'Death isn't so bad. No more nagging husband, no more burnt toast, and certainly no more complaining about my exquisite embalming fluid. In fact, you're looking positively radiant. Which, let's be honest, is more than anyone could say about you last Tuesday at the bingo hall.' He patted her cold hand. 'The living,' he sighed, 'always so demanding. The dead? Utterly delightful. Never a word of complaint. You just give them a good nap and a fresh face, and they’re happy as… well, as dead as a dormouse in a velvet box.'