On the 11th of September, in Lyon, Cécile Saint-Saëns went to her mailbox to retrieve a letter that quite rudely poked out of the container. This was, by all means, thoroughly unremarkable and in fact a rather solidified part of her routine.
Cécile was a woman of 56 years, with hair that was just beginning to see the first hints of a wintry, grey period, and who enjoyed to spend time alone reading a book, or perhaps tending to her balcony-garden.
Given the size of the envelope, she could only assume it was some sort of formal document. Perhaps her water fees, or her taxes. But when she opened it, she found it to be a death notice. Specifically, it was a very stuffy document outlining the fact that she had died.
Cécile, of course, simply felt a bit annoyed by this notice. She’d have to arrange her wake, choose a graveyard, and worst of all, she’d have to buy herself hyacinths and heathers. In the off season!
Truly, whoever was in charge of this was very, very rude, which is why she decided she’d have a word with them once she was properly dead and all.
But alas, such is death.
First order of business was penning down a will and instructions for her funeral. These are transcribed, in full, here: “ALL MY THINGS SHOULD BE GIVEN TO CHARITY. MY FUNERAL SHOULD BE AS NONEXISTANT AS POSSIBLE. CHARLOTTE SHOULD GET A RUDE NOTE. DOMINIQUE SHOULD GET THREE FRANKS FOR THE SEEDS HE LENT ME WHEN WE WERE KIDS.”
Having done that, she headed to the train station. The next train to Marsaille would be departing relatively soon, after all. Thus, in less than an hour, she had gotten her affairs in order, written her last will and testament, and was on her way to the nearest ferry. Her eulogy would certainly have to mention her efficiency.
Her train arrived a few hours earlier than her ferry’s departure, so she spent the extra time sightseeing. Marseille was, after all, the most popular port of funerary ferries. People who had been notified of their death arrived at all times, every day of the year. As such, most people - Cécile included - expect the city to have an air of solemnity, or, less delicately, to be a very, very depressing place. This expectation is indeed incorrect, as Marsaille prides itself in how full of dead people it is.
Cécile herself had always wanted to visit, but had never gotten around to it. “Good thing death comes,” she thought. She then considered that could’ve sounded like a very sad thought, so she internally clarified that that was not the case.
Eventually, the clock striked six, and it was her time to go. The port was quite busy, which was unfortunate. Unfortunate for those that hadn’t died, of course, as the funerary ferry’s dock was completely empty, barring those who indeed had died and their saddened families.
Cécile observed those groups. Their heart-wrenching cries, their immense grief, their nigh-deafening wails as their loved ones slowly boarded a boat to take them to wherever it is dead people go to. It was mostly grandparents, surrounded by their children’s children. A few people her age, too, apologizing to their wives and husbands about the drinking habit that had stopped their hearts. A singular kid, roughly twelve by eye, was also preparing to board, as his family lamented the car accident that had taken him. Cécile, of course, didn’t care for any of that one bit. She found it quite annoying, really.
But alas, such is death, and she better get on before all the good seats got taken.