Life

The death world is more boring than imagined.

I found a job proofreading death certificates, nine-to-five, paid in universal points that could buy milk tea, clothes – no different from real life. My colleagues included some elderly who died of old age – they loved gossiping about which living descendant had burned many good things at their grave – and some, like me, were young people in their teens or twenties who died suddenly, barely socialized, with few middle-aged folks.

"You'll slowly grow old and then experience a second death," a senior sister told me. She had lived here for thirty years, her wrinkles deeper than when she died. "Luckily, they sell cosmetics here too, can cover up some traces..." She repeatedly examined her face in a mirror.

"Where do souls go after the second death?"

"Who knows." She shrugged. "Maybe continue falling downward."

Being new to this world and unfamiliar with everything, I spent each day eating and chatting with the messenger and seniors.

"I beg you, fewer people dying, please. It's so annoying flying around every day to pick them up," the messenger complained, burying her face in her ramen bowl. Her wings drooped listlessly behind her, a few feathers still wet with rain from the human world. "Last week, I picked up the dead who jumped off from a high building. Wow, that gruesome scene, the bloody image is still vivid. This job is too brutal; I'm getting psychological trauma."

The senior sister leisurely picked up a piece of char siu: "Mine's more fun. I can turn simple causes of death, like cardiac arrest, into fun little stories and gossip about them with people around me."

"How do you write that?" For me, I just had to investigate their medical records from when they were alive or the murder weapon if they were maliciously killed to issue their death certificate, no need to go to great lengths to write a story.

"Ms. Tian, writing cardiac arrest as the cause of death is too vague." Her pen swished across the file. "Stress-induced myocardial infarction due to witnessing her husband's affair, hmm... must specify the direct trigger." She looked satisfied with her story.

The messenger's wings suddenly spread. Her phone kept vibrating, showing footage from a hospital ICU. The senior, without looking up, tossed her a pre-approved death preliminary review form: "This one's late-stage liver cancer. Remember to verify the soul code matches the corpse's fingerprints – you messed up twice last month."

I watched the messenger fly away cursing. The senior continued revising documents while eating.

When her pen tip passed over my name, I glimpsed a small line in the remarks column of my death certificate: "This soul has not prepared enough; requires submission of an additional bucket list of attachments to resolve."

The cafeteria speaker always echoed with a mechanical female voice: "Team Three, please proceed immediately to the Third Writing Room. Complete the suicide victim's suicide note before others enter."

Witnessing countless experiences more tragic than my own, their deaths were seen by the mortal world as flawless performances, processed by us. Working on others' deaths after our own death – this is our life.