#nervousspectrefh

None of it helps.

By mid-afternoon, he stands beside the old wagon near the shed that’s had a creaky wheel for weeks. There is something satisfying about hard labor when one is angry, and Buzz sets about making repairs with more force than is strictly necessary. 

The wagon gives a groan, and then another, and before the General can react, the aging support beneath the axle gives way and the entire wagon lurches violently. The wheel crashes sideways, followed by the frame, and Buzz Grunt finds himself pinned beneath several hundred pounds of wood and iron.

For a few moments he struggles against the weight of the wagon, muscles straining as the wheel pins him to the frozen ground, but then the fight begins to leave him. As the farmyard grows strangely quiet, his thoughts turn not to his military career, but instead his boys. Tank, stubborn and dependable. Ripp, infuriating and restless. Buck, still young enough to need his father more than he realizes.

For the first time all day, the anger drains out of him, and he stops struggling. Cold air blows across the farmyard, and the Grim Reaper approaches without hurry, black robes trailing through the snow. The Reaper extends a hand, and the old General accepts it.

In Freedom Hollow, folks speak in whispers of Saint Bethany of Tea, the mysterious bringer of death whose jar predicts the exact moment when a soul will exit this mortal coil. Whether Saint Bethany of Tea serves the Watcher directly or merely travels the roads between life and whatever comes after is a matter for philosophers and reverends. 

Returning home from the schoolhouse with cold cheeks and a stack of lessons beneath one arm, Buck immediately notices the abandoned tools scattered near the wagon, and a knot forms in his stomach. The sight beyond confirms his fears, and he does the only thing he can think to do and runs for Tank. Then he waits in the impossibly empty farmhouse, staring at the door. 

It is well after sunset when Ripp finally returns, the anger from that morning long since fadedand replaced by the lingering warmth of his evening with Ophelia and the secret vows they exchanged. 

One look at his younger brother's face is enough to wipe the smile from his face, and Ripp's stomach drops.

"What happened?"

"I found him out by the wagon." For a moment Ripp simply stares. “Tank already went into town to fetch Nervous.” Ripp takes a ragged breath and pulls his brother into a hug, telling him he did well to get Tank. 

An hour later, a wagon lantern appears through the darkness outside; the undertaker has arrived. After a few moments, Nervous explains the arrangements, speaking gently as he outlines the practical matters that inevitably follow a death: a casket, a burial; the sort of details nobody wishes to discuss but everyone eventually must.

Trading Post Saturday draws Nervous to town reluctantly, and he moves through the bustling square with his usual hesitant steps. The noise, the crowds, the laughter; all of it leaves him slightly overwhelmed. He nearly collides with David Ottomas near the stalls, the encounter awkward and flustered, David muttering something impatient under his breath before stalking off. Nervous flushes and murmurs an apology that goes unheard, wishing, not for the first time, that the living were as gentle as the dead.

His unease only deepens when a familiar, sharp-eyed figure emerges from the edge of the crowd. Olive, the strange old crone from the woods who is whispered about in town with a mixture of fear and superstition, glares at him. Her words are clipped and her tone merciless, chastising him for his behavior, his posture, and his very existence in a way one would not expect from mere neighbors. Nervous lowers his eyes, unaware of the deeper truth that binds them: a child once abandoned, and a mother who never truly left. Olive departs as abruptly as she arrived, leaving Nervous shaken. 

That evening he forces himself to attend the Barn Dance, lingering near the edges as couples spin and laughter fills the hall. Romance and flirtation have never quite settled comfortably on his shoulders, and he finds himself more interested in the music, the shadows, and the quiet corners than in finding a partner.

Nervous starts his day between the quiet rows of the cemetery, tending to the graves with careful hands. He straightens crooked markers, clears fallen leaves, and disposes wilted flowers left behind by grieving families. In the hush of the morning, broken only by the songs of birds and the soft scrape of his tools, Nervous feels most at ease; to him, the dead are far kinder company than the living.

At midday, he returns to his workshop to attend to the more somber duties of his profession. He prepares the departed with respectful precision, then turns to the careful construction of coffins, planing wood smooth and fitting each joint with care. Every piece is built to last, sturdy and plain, a permanent home to those who will rest within. When the tasks are complete, he takes his seat behind the small desk at the front of his establishment, waiting quietly in case the bell should ring and summon him to service.

Nervous Spectre is Freedom Hollow’s undertaker, and a man whose pale complexion and twitching hands have made him as memorable as he is mysterious. Abandoned at a young age, he was raised with little guidance or comfort, shaping him into the quiet, anxious man who now tends to the town’s dead. Though timid and often jumpy, his work is precise, respectful, and meticulous; qualities that have earned him a grudging admiration among the townsfolk.

A thin layer of snow blankets the ground on the day of General Buzz’s funeral; not enough to hinder travel, just enough to turn the fields white and leave frost clinging to the fences and rooftops. 

The service is simple, and the Grunt boys stand together in silence.

Tank keeps his expression carefully controlled; but those who know him well recognize the strain in his jaw.

Meanwhile Buck stares at the fresh grave and fights a losing battle against his tears. Standing beside Tank is Lilith, and even though she wears black almost every day of her life, today is different somehow. For once, she does not look rebellious, she simply looks sad.

And then there is Ripp, who has spent most of his life arguing with his father, defying him. Now he finds himself wishing for one more lecture.

By evening, they return to the farmhouse, and the moment they step inside, Lilith stops, eyes wide. 

It is a disaster. Dirty plates sit abandoned on every available surface. Ripp and Buck have clearly spent the past several days surviving rather than living. Lilith slowly turns toward her husband, who follows her gaze. Lilith looks ready to commit a crime, but instead she takes a long breath.

Within minutes she is rolling up her sleeves and attacking the kitchen with the determination of a cavalry charge that even the General would have been proud of, and as darkness settles outside, the room already looks considerably more civilized. Satisfied, Lilith turns her attention to making sure they are properly fed.

The selection in the pantry is uninspiring; a few potatoes, some onions, dried beans. Still, it is enough, and soon a hearty stew simmers on the stove, filling the farmhouse with a smell that feels remarkably close to comfort, and eventually Lilith sets bowls before each of them. 

The clouds hang low overhead and snow drifts past the windows of the undertaker's shop, and in his small apartment, Nervous stares out at the weather. Down below, the showroom is dark and empty; no one shops for caskets on Christmas if they can help it, and the graveyard has already been tended for the day. 

After a while, Nervous carries a chair over to the window and settles beside it as he watches the snow fall. He is dwelling on the difficulty to enjoy a holiday built around family if one doesn't have one, when a sound breaks through the quiet. 

A knock at the door.

Nervous startles, and another knock follows. His eyes drift toward the floorboards beneath him, and for one ridiculous moment, his imagination gets the better of him.

"Well," he mutters, because the possibility of company is too absurd, "the dead have finally decided to spend Christmas with me." Nervous rises from his chair and swings open the door, prepared for whatever specter is on the other side. 

Instead he is met with the very corporeal form of Cyd Roseland, bundled from head to toe in heavy furs, and all Nervous can do is blink.

"Merry Christmas." Nervous blinks again.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well," Cyd says, shedding his furs as he invites himself inside, "I managed to bring down a wild turkey yesterday. Big Fellow, enough to keep the Ottomas’ fed for a week and then some, but it seems a waste just for me, so I got to thinking,” Nervous' heart skips a beat, "That it might be more practical for two men with empty tables to share one instead."

Once Nervous has shut the door behind him, Cyd hands him a basket filled with the bird and some vegetables he brought along and sets about preparing the bird. Nervous attempts to be helpful, but he soon proves more useful as company than a sous chef. 

Piper is delighted to have visitors and bats at Cyd’s heels, and Nervous quickly picks her up. 

“Piper, enough,” he warns, playfully scolding her. Cyd smirks. 

"You spoil her," he remarks while chopping carrots, and the apartment gradually fills with the smell of onions, carrots, and roasting turkey. The smell makes the apartment feel almost like a home and not simply a place to sleep. 

When Cyd finally opens the oven door and carefully lifts the bird onto a serving platter, for a moment, both men admire it. The turkey, beautifully crisp and golden and juices glistening in the lamplight, looks like something that ought to grace the table of a wealthy rancher rather than two bachelors spending Christmas above an undertaker's shop.

"Watcher," Nervous breathes, "That bird may be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen."

"That's a little insulting," Cyd winks, carrying the bird to the counter to carve while Nervous blushes from his forehead to his toes. Cyd serves them generous slices of turkey, and the two men sit together at the table. Nervous takes his first bite and closes his eyes briefly.

"Better than porridge?" Cyd asks playfully, and Nervous giggles. As the meal continues, the conversation comes easily. Between stories they keep reaching for more turkey, and the little apartment grows warm from the stove's lingering heat.

When the plates are finally empty, Cyd leans back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, and Nervous is certain he’s smiled more in this one evening than he has in his entire life. Eventually Cyd clears his throat. 

"I should probably head home." Nervous nods, though he wishes he wouldn’t. 

"Thank you for all of this," he says, and Cyd simply shrugs. 

"It didn't seem right for either of us to spend Christmas alone."

Then Cyd pulls him into a hug that warms Nervous even more than the stove. It lasts a little longer than necessary, but neither man appears especially eager to be the first to pull away, until finally Piper decides to take advantage of the sentimentality. 

Nervous has never been particularly fond of silence. One winter morning, he shuffles into the kitchen, lights the stove, and prepares himself a simple bowl of porridge. Much like Nervous himself, the meal is plain and entirely unremarkable.

As he sits at the table eating breakfast, his eyes drift toward a sack of flour resting beside the counter, and a few moments later, the flour sack has been carefully positioned in the chair opposite him. Nervous stares at it; the sack fails to stare back. Several minutes pass before he realizes he is carrying on a conversation with baking supplies; and despite it, he isn't convinced the flour isn't listening.

The graveyard requires constant attention regardless of season, and much of the day is spent tending plots, clearing snow from pathways, straightening headstones, and ensuring everything remains presentable; Nervous has always believed the dead deserve dignity.

By evening he returns home, where several customers stop by to discuss arrangements and browse his selection of caskets. Among them is Calista Fuchs, who spends a considerable amount of time asking questions about wood types, brass fittings, and delivery arrangements.

Nervous is always slightly unsettled when people shop for coffins with the same seriousness others devote to furniture, but business is business.

Nervous decides he has earned a pleasant evening, and heads to the Billiard Hall. Unlike the saloon, which caters to ranchers, laborers, and anyone seeking a strong drink after a long day, the Billiard Hall carries itself with slightly more refinement. Nervous rather likes it.

After helping himself to a glass of nectar, he takes a seat at one of the poker tables and joins a game already in progress. The other players greet him politely, none appearing particularly concerned about the undertaker's chances.

Perhaps it is luck, or skill, or perhaps years spent speaking with ghosts have given him insight into human nature. Whatever the reason, one hand after another falls his way until, by the end of the evening, Nervous finds himself leaving the table with noticeably heavier pockets than when he arrived.

The victory puts him in an excellent mood.

As he makes his way toward the exit, he nearly collides with Cyd Roseland. 

"Nervous."

"Cyd."

For a few minutes they linger near the entrance making small talk while snow drifts past the windows. After a moment, the conversation turns toward Christmas.

"Got plans?" Cyd asks.

"Just keeping an eye on the graveyard. The dead don't take holidays." Cyd laughs. "And perhaps I'll make myself something nice for supper…maybe add butter to my porridge." Cyd mock places a hand over his heart.

"Easy there! It’s Christmas, not a royal banquet." This earns a laugh in turn from Nervous. 

As their chat continues, Nervous finds himself paying a little less attention to the conversation and a little more attention to the man himself. Cyd's smile is warm, his laugh infectious. Even the way he leans casually against the billiard table seems unfairly charming. For the first time, Nervous wonders what it might be like to have someone waiting for him at home. Someone to share breakfast with, to spend Christmas beside.