(And Other Minor Inconveniences)
Ah, there you are. Finally. Took you long enough. Honestly, I was beginning to think you’d wandered off to the interactive “Dress Like a Roman Centurion!” exhibit again. Remember last time? Helmet got stuck. Security got involved. It was a whole thing.
But no, this is better.
This is… perfect.
Because just ahead, tucked away in the dusty wing of this tired little museum, behind the display of “Ceremonial Spoons of the Lesser Duchy of Blörv”, is something far more interesting. Far more… personal.
There. Do you see it? That urn. Yes, that one. The rather unremarkable clay thing sitting smugly under that dim spotlight like it knows something you don’t.
Go on, step closer.
It’s not going to bite you.
(It might curse you, but that’s only if you read it aloud under a blood moon, so we’re probably fine. Probably.)
Read the inscription.
Go on. Out loud. Just humour me.
Yes. That’s your name. First, middle, last—spelled exactly right, which is impressive considering even your bank gets it wrong. And underneath?
Ah. There it is.
“The Death of [J.W. Eirdflower]: A Cautionary Tale in Three Mistakes.”
Catchy title, really. Very marketable. Could see that on a limited podcast series.
Now, before you start hyperventilating or Googling “What to do if you find your own funerary object,” let’s be clear: you haven’t died. Yet.
You’re doing great! You’ve made it all the way to Exhibit Hall 7 without tripping over a velvet rope or stealing anything. That’s growth.
But here’s the bit that should concern you—this story is yours.
And not “yours” as in ‘haha wouldn’t it be weird if?’
No. This story is already written.
It’s in that urn. Every twist, wrong turn and extremely ill-advised button you pressed despite clear signage and repeated warnings.
What’s that? You didn’t press any buttons?
Oh, my sweet naïve protagonist.
You’ve always pressed the button.
It’s practically your love language.
Now, let’s recap what the urn says, shall we?
Mistake One:
You entered the museum on a whim. Curiosity. Boredom. A desire to avoid whatever actual responsibilities were waiting outside. Classic.
Mistake Two:
You strayed from the tour path. Because of course you did.
Why follow the helpful arrows when there are off-limits doors and dusty side corridors to explore? You’ve never met a boundary you didn’t immediately try to cross like a toddler with a ladder.
And Mistake Three?
Ah. That’s the juicy one.
That’s the one that hasn’t happened yet.
Because that one is the choice you’re about to make.
Yes. You. Standing here. Reading your own eulogy like a nosy time traveller.
The urn is practically daring you.
Behind you, three doors.
One marked “Exit.”
One marked “Staff Only.”
And one with no markings at all, just slightly ajar and humming ever so faintly, like a fridge that contains… secrets.
Now, logically, you should take the Exit.
Leave. Go home. Get a sandwich. Forget all of this. Blame it on low blood sugar and a surplus of dramatic lighting.
But you’re not going to do that, are you?
No.
You’re going to walk toward the unmarked door.
Because you need to know.
Because you think, maybe you’re different.
Maybe your story ends a little bit smarter. A little bit braver. A little less… urn-y.
And I—I, your ever-faithful inner voice—am going to follow you.
Commenting.
Critiquing.
Making passive-aggressive remarks about your life choices in real time.
So go ahead. Step through.
The final mistake is waiting.
And oh, it can’t wait to meet you.
