《The Art of Letting Go》


 Welcome to the Machine

    Artemis Bartholomew IV had spent her entire afterlife preparing for this moment. She was finally going to be a reaper.


    Or so she thought.


    The towering gates before her, a bizarre fusion of wrought iron and filing cabinets, creaked open with a burdened groan. She took a deep breath, unnecessary for her incorporeal state but a habit carried over from so much time observing mortal life, as she stepped forward into her new career as a Grim Reaper.


    The name Bartholomew carried a legacy that Art was excited to continue. Soul reaping was in desperate need of a public relations overhaul among mortals and her father, Artemis Bartholomew III, was finally retiring from human reaping. What a spector does in retirement was neither Art¡¯s business or concern. It only meant that it was finally time for her to put her plans, her ideas, her *legacy*, into action.


    Still, the sprawling office complex that greeted her was a far cry from the mystical realm she had imagined. Instead of clouds and harps, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on endless rows of cubicles. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and despair.


    "Welcome to eternity," Art whispered to herself, her enthusiasm undimmed by the dreary surroundings. Her bright blue hair stuck out amongst the spirits who opted for their simple, shapeless forms, but Art was no stranger to standing out. She was the first female Artemis Bartholomew, the first reaper to become licensed and certified through apprenticeship rather than education, and the youngest reaper to get called up.


    She straightened her newly acquired black robe, double checked that her scythe was polished to a gleam, and strode purposefully towards the reception desk.


    A bored-looking skeleton, its jaw hanging slightly askew, barely glanced up from its ancient computer. "Name?" it drawled, bony fingers hovering over a keyboard that looked like it had seen better days... maybe centuries ago.


    "Artemis Bartholomew IV," she replied, unable to keep the pride from her voice. "I''m a new soul reaper, reporting for my first day!"


    The skeleton''s eye sockets somehow managed to convey deep weariness. "Another Bartholomew," it muttered, clicking away at the keyboard with agonizing slowness. "Take a number and wait for HR."


    Art blinked, her smile faltering for the first time. "I''m sorry, what? I thought I was starting my duties today. You know, reaping souls, guiding the departed, that sort of thing?"


    The skeleton chuckled with the same joy and life one would expect from a death rattle. "Oh, you sweet summer child. You''ve got a long way to go before you touch a soul. First stop for every employee¡ª*including soul reapers*¡ªis *orientation*."


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    ¡°On your way, Bartholomew,¡± the skeleton hissed, looking past her.


    With a dejected sigh, Art took her number¡ª13,013, dull, ordinary, and yet still somehow¡ªand found a seat in the waiting area. The chairs were somehow both uncomfortably hard and impossibly saggy. Impressive considering that, all around her, none of the various spectral entities actually *sat*. They slouched, in various states of boredom and despair.


    Art kept her eyes forward, but her curiosity got the best of her. Most of these spirits were waiting. Some had been waiting so long, their spectral forms had started to flicker in and out of existence. A ghostly woman was filing her nails, dust accumulating on her like she was part of the furniture. A translucent man in a bowler hat had dozed off so deeply, he was actively phasing between dimensions.


    *Waiting to pass? Or waiting to speak with HR?*


    Hours ticked by, marked only by the occasional call of "Next!" from unseen depths of the office. *My first day and it feels like centuries are passing.*


    Art tried to maintain her optimism, reviewing the Reaper''s Handbook she''d snatched from her father and memorized in downtime. But as the milliseconds stretched into what felt like millennia, her eyes began to glaze over and she considered scoping the place for someone with a smaller ticket number.


    Finally, just as Art was considering whether it was possible for a spirit to die of boredom, a voice crackled over the ancient PA system: "Number 13,013, report to HR for Compliance."


    Art leapt to her feet, nearly tripping over her robe in her eagerness. She navigated the labyrinthine corridors, passing by endless rows of identical cubicles. Spirits hunched over desks, their ethereal forms made somehow more insubstantial by the soul-crushing tedium of their tasks.


    At last, she arrived at a cubical with a plaque on the partition reading "Morticia Graves, HR Compliance Officer" in a font that could only be described as aggressively bland.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    "Um, hello?" Art called out tentatively. "I''m Artemis Bartholomew IV, the new soul reaper? I was told to report here for¡ª"


    ¡°Sit, child, and remain silent,¡± came a voice as dry as ancient parchment and twice as brittle. From behind a towering stack of paperwork emerged Morticia Graves, a spirit whose very essence seemed to embody imposing bureaucratic ennui. Her spectral form was long and sheathed in a hooded robe. But the robe was a dull, dull grey, as if the color had been leached from her by centuries of mind-numbing paperwork.


    Art quickly took a seat, her optimism wavering in the face of Morticia''s palpable disdain. "I''m very excited to start my duties as a soul reaper," she ventured, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the oppressive atmosphere.


    Morticia''s laugh was a sound like rustling tax forms. ¡°Oh, another bright-eyed Bartholomew. You poor deluded reaper. You have no idea how much re-education you will need.¡± She pulled out a comically large stack of forms. ¡°Before you can even think about going into the field or handling case assignments, you¡¯ll need to fill out these afterlife insurance forms, sign your eternal soul over to the company, and complete your mandatory hours of sensitivity training.¡±


    Morticia¡¯s expression remained unchanged as Art¡¯s jaw dropped. "But... but I''ve already completed years of training! I''m certified and licensed!"


    ¡°Certifications,¡± Morticia scoffed. ¡°That¡¯s just the beginning, darling. Welcome to the real afterlife, where dreams come to die¡­ again.¡± She shoved the papers towards Art. ¡°Start filing. And don¡¯t even think about using blue ink. It¡¯s strictly black ink or mortal blood here.¡±


    As Art began the mind-numbing task of form-filling, Morticia launched into a monotone recitation of company policies. ¡°Bathroom breaks are done on your own time. Lunch is whenever you can steal a moment between processing. Vacation days begin accruing after a probationary period of thirty years of service.


    Hours blended into one another as Art struggled through the paperwork. Her hand cramped, her eyes crossed, and she was pretty sure she''d signed away her firstborn child at least twice. Just when she thought it couldn''t get any worse, a glitchy hologram flickered to life on Morticia''s desk.


    "Heya, folks!" The hologram sputtered and fizzed, revealing a spectral entity with a permanent look of confusion etched on his face. "I''m Tod, your friendly neighborhood tech support ghoul! Looks like we''re having some issues with the soul-processing software again. Have you tried turning it off and on again?"


    Morticia''s groan could have woken the dead¡­ if they weren''t all already working in the cubicles around them. ¡°Not now. I¡¯m in the middle of orientation.¡±


    "Ooh, a newbie!" Tod¡¯s hologram turned to Art, his grin widening off of his face¡ª literally. "Welcome aboard! Don''t worry, you''ll get the hang of our cutting-edge technology in no time. Why, this software is barely a century out of date!"


    Art managed a weak smile. "That''s... wow. I''m sure it''s very efficient."


    Tod¡¯s laugh sounded like radio static. "Efficient! Oh, you''re a riot. Listen, once you''re done with orientation, come see me. I''ll set you up with our state-of-the-art soul-reaping equipment. It''s very user-friendly - we¡¯ve got downtime down to only six hours a day!"


    With that, Tod¡¯s hologram flickered and vanished, leaving behind the scent of ozone and broken dreams.


    Morticia turned back to Art, her spectral eyes narrowing. ¡°Well, now you¡¯ve met our illustrious tech support. Where were we? Ah yes, Clause 24-B of your eternal servitude contract¡­¡±


    As Morticia droned on, Art felt her initial excitement draining away, replaced by a creeping sense of despair. Her father nor grandfather had spoken about this. *Is this¡­ is this it? Is this what soul reaping has become? Endless paperwork, malfunctioning technology, and a bureaucracy so vast it made the mortal world look positively streamlined?* She had dreamed of guiding lost souls, of making the afterlife easier for those who feared it. But no one here was guiding anything. They were just¡­ filing.


    But then, just as she was about to succumb to the soul-crushing tedium, Art caught sight of something that rekindled her determination. Through a gap in the cubicle wall, she spotted a newly arrived soul.


    *A mortal.*


    A mortal who looked lost and frightened. Fresh. Still in their corporeal form. The spirit of an elderly woman, clutching a handbag she managed to pull over with her, her eyes wide with confusion and fear.


    *Lost and frightened. Wandering.


    Still holding onto an earthly possession.


    She needs guidance.


    Finally!* This was why she was so excited to become a soul reaper in the first place. Not for the paperwork or the bureaucracy, but for those souls who needed guidance, compassion, and a friendly face in their darkest hour.


    With renewed resolve, Art turned back to Morticia. "I understand there''s a lot of red tape, Ms. Graves, but I''m ready for whatever challenges lie ahead. I''m here to make a difference, one soul at a time."


    Morticia''s eyebrow arched so high it nearly left her forehead. ¡°Make a difference? Oh, you sweet summer child¡­¡±


    Art¡¯s eyelid twitched before she could stop herself.


    ¡°The only difference you¡¯ll make is in our quarterly soul processing quotas.¡± She stamped the last of Art¡¯s forms with a finality that echoed through Art¡¯s head. ¡°Welcome to the Division of the Deceased and Expired Affairs, Artemis Bartholomew. Your cubicle is down the hall, third door past Eternal Damnation but right before Reincarnation Processing. Try not to get lost¡ªthe last recruit must still be wandering the corridors. If you happen upon any lost soul, remember to fill out the proper forms in triplicate.¡±


    As Art gathered her mountain of paperwork and prepared to find her new workstation, she couldn''t help but feel a mix of trepidation and determination. *Okay, so we¡¯ve got red tape, malfunctioning holograms, and enough bureaucracy to make me gag.*


    But Artemis Bartholomew IV was no ordinary soul reaper. Her father¡¯s voice was firm in her head. *The Bartholomew death-dealers bring compassion, efficiency, and life to every passing we facilitate.* Maybe a touch of life was all this world of eternal paper-pushing needed to remember why they were all there.


    With her head held high and her scythe at the ready (though she had a feeling it would be used more for removing staples than soul-reaping in the near future), Art set off to find her cubicle.


    *Welcome to the afterlife, indeed. Here''s your cubicle, Art. May your stapler never jam and your forms always be in triplicate.*


    The Division of Deceased and Expired Affairs had no idea what was about to hit it.