The Embalmer's Artistic Vision

Mr. Silas Hemlock smoothed his already impeccable waistcoat. Another day, another soul to prepare for their grand finale. He hummed a jaunty tune, the kind usually reserved for gardening rather than embalming, as he reviewed Mrs. Agnes Henderson’s file. Died peacefully in her sleep at 92. 'Honestly,' Silas sighed, polishing a silver forceps, 'some people just lack ambition in their passing. No dramatic last words, no scandalous secret revealed, not even a decent struggle with a rogue scone.'

He believed every life deserved a fitting send-off, and 'fitting' for Silas usually meant 'unforgettable,' often to the mild horror of the bereaved. Mrs. Henderson, a woman known for her prize-winning petunias and a severe allergy to anything beige, presented a challenge. Her family had requested a 'simple, dignified service.' Silas scoffed. Dignified? For Agnes? The woman who once dyed her poodle electric blue for a local dog show? Unthinkable.

He surveyed her serene, albeit slightly purple, visage. 'No, Agnes,' he murmured, retrieving a small, discreetly labeled bottle of 'Perky Posing Solution' and a miniature gardening trowel from a hidden drawer. 'We simply cannot let you go out with a whimper. After all,' he chuckled, positioning a particularly vibrant gladiolus near her hand, 'even in eternity, one must tend to their garden. Or, at the very least, look like they're about to.'