Chapter 1: Ghost Orders and Viral Chaos

To pay off my debts, I run a livestream where I sell funeral supplies—and I even promise to deliver memorial offerings myself, straight to people’s departed loved ones. One day, a young mother reaches out, spends a small fortune on offerings, but lists herself as the recipient. The doctor says she’s got less than a month to live. She wants to prep for the afterlife in advance. But something’s not adding up—her file in the Book of Life and Death says she’s supposed to make it to a hundred!

My name is Autumn Harper, and I’m a delivery person for the afterlife. Yeah, it’s a weird job.

Honestly, you get used to the odd stuff. Here’s how it works: In the afterlife, all the paper people, luxury mansions, and cars people send for their loved ones—they don’t just show up. I have to give them form with my mind before the souls there can actually receive and use them.

Sometimes I think of myself as a kind of supernatural postmaster—like those old-timey mail carriers—trudging through snowdrifts, delivering Christmas cards. Only my route runs straight through the veil between worlds. Seriously, the stuff people send... it’s as wild as you’d imagine: McMansions with four-car garages, paper Teslas, even a paper Starbucks franchise. Yeah, you heard me. Every order, no matter how outlandish, I have to shape and deliver with care. Some days, it feels like I’m the last craftsman in a dying trade. It’s lonely work.

But these days, hardly anyone orders afterlife deliveries anymore. Fewer young people believe in these traditions. Meanwhile, my monthly payments on a luxury afterlife mansion—bought for 800 billion ghost dollars in installments over 800 years at the Heaven & Earth Credit Union—are about to go unpaid. 800 billion ghost dollars—seriously, who comes up with these numbers?

Honestly, those loan officers at the Heaven & Earth Credit Union... they’ve got all the warmth of a tax auditor and none of the forgiveness. Miss a payment, and I get reminder letters that smell faintly of brimstone. No kidding. Sometimes I wonder if the repo guys in the afterlife drive ghostly tow trucks, ready to haul away your spirit-mansion in the dead of night. Not that I’d let it get that far. I’ve worked too hard for my little slice of paradise.

So what’s a girl to do? I had no choice but to start livestreaming in the world of the living, selling funeral supplies.

I never thought I’d be hustling on camera, but here I am—ring light, soft jazz playing, stacks of paper money and cardboard Ferraris behind me. Some folks think it’s morbid. My chat? They love it. They throw up heart emojis and ask about the afterlife like it’s just another vacation spot. Honestly, sometimes I think I missed my calling as a QVC host. Maybe I should’ve been selling blenders instead of spirit Teslas.

This time, I connected with a young mother who looked absolutely wiped out. As soon as she joined, she maxed out her card—seriously, she bought enough memorial offerings to fill a warehouse.

She looked like she hadn’t slept in days—dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. But you could see she was determined. The way she rattled off her order, it was like she’d been planning this for weeks. I had to wonder what her story was.

"Autumn, get your notebook and write this down: My name is Marissa Lane, my detailed address and date of birth are..."

She rattled off her details—didn’t miss a beat. I scrambled to keep up, my pen flying. My assistant, Tyler, shot me a look at the sheer volume of info pouring in.

After introducing herself, she placed a massive order:

"Give me three mansions and three ranches each; one of every model of Tesla and Porsche. Stock up three years’ worth of chicken, beef, fish, and groceries for me. By the way, can you farm in the afterlife? If you can, give me a thousand acres of land!" A thousand acres. No big deal, right?

I couldn’t help it—my eyes lit up. It had been forever since I’d had a customer this generous.

Honestly, I nearly did a happy dance right there. You don’t see orders like that every day—not since the old days, when people would send whole paper cities for their ancestors. Tyler shot me a look, like, "Don’t blow it."

She sounded just as excited:

"Oh, with so many houses, it won’t do if there’s no one to do chores and farm. Send me twenty strong men, and make sure they’re handsome."

She winked—half-joking, half-serious. The chat went wild, dropping fire emojis and wolf whistles. My grin got even wider. It’s wild how much hope people pin on the afterlife—like it’s a second shot at living large.

The young mother glanced at my assistant and kept praising me: "You’re really skilled. The paper person working for you looks exactly like the late movie star Tyler Monroe!"

Tyler’s mouth twitched a couple of times, clearly wanting to curse. I shot him a warning look and whispered, "Tyler, don’t forget you still owe me a hundred years of free labor."

Tyler rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. He just muttered something about "Hollywood never pays this bad." I shot him a look. In this gig, you learn to keep your helpers humble.

As Tyler rolled his eyes in silent anger, I noticed the viewers in the livestream getting excited:

[Wait! You can send things to yourself in advance?!]

[Then I want to buy myself a ranch, get a Porsche, and send a few maids to serve me!]

[Work like a dog now, live like a boss later! My whole perspective on making money just changed!]

[Autumn, can you open an account for me at the Heaven & Earth Credit Union in advance? Then I can send things to myself every month!]

Honestly, I couldn’t even argue. Their ideas were outrageous, but hey—who am I to judge?

If I could, I’d set up a subscription box for the afterlife—"Afterlife Luxuries Monthly." Because you can’t take it with you. But you can send it ahead. The comments section was pure chaos, people joking about sending yachts and season tickets to the afterlife Super Bowl. I just shrugged. Stranger things have happened.

Everyone was having fun, but soon, the young mother looked at the camera and complained bitterly:

"Who in their right mind would send these unlucky things to themselves!"

"Damn it, I really am going to die!"

Her brows furrowed, and suddenly, as if having a fit, she started banging her head against the wall in front of the camera. Then she shakily took out a handful of pills, swallowed them in front of everyone, and said:

"I just finished childbirth, haven’t even finished my recovery, and now I’m diagnosed with late-stage liver cancer."

"Do you know what cancer pain is?! I have to bang my head against the wall every day to stop the pain. I just want it to be over."

"By the way, before I die, Autumn, can you store these memorial offerings for me first?"

I’ve been delivering in the afterlife for hundreds of years, and I’ve seen countless ghosts and people. But something about her didn’t add up. Through the camera, her pain and gritted teeth didn’t look fake at all—but there was something else beneath it.

I felt a chill run down my spine. In my line of work, you get a sense for these things. Some people wear death like a shadow, others burn with a stubborn will to live. She was somewhere in between—her agony was real, but she still had fight left in her.

Just as I was puzzling over it, a viewer bluntly commented:

[No offense, but you don’t look like you’re in late stage. If it were liver cancer, your complexion wouldn’t be so rosy!]

[Be nice! She’s in late-stage cancer, can’t she use a beauty filter?!]

The young mother looked at her rosy face in the camera, still wracked with pain. Suddenly, she grinned at the viewers with a strange smile, her laughter ringing out—sharp and piercing, sending chills down everyone’s spine.

Her laughter grew louder and sharper. Suddenly, her body jerked and she collapsed to the ground.