Jacob learned early that knives were honest things.
They did not care who held them. They did not flatter, and they did not forgive mistakes. A dull blade punished impatience; a sharp one rewarded calm. In his youth, Jacob had once cut his thumb to the bone while rushing through prep, blood soaking into a pile of onions. His head chef at the time hadn't shouted. He had simply handed Jacob a cloth and said, Slow hands last longer.
Jacob remembered that lesson for the rest of his life.
For forty years, kitchens were the center of his world. He rose before the sun and returned home long after it had set, his clothes heavy with the scent of oil, garlic, and smoke. His hands grew strong and precise, scarred in places but steady. He could fillet a fish without wasting a gram of flesh, dice vegetables into perfect symmetry, and break down a carcass with quiet respect. Cooking, to him, was not art. It was discipline. It was knowing where to cut and when to stop.
When he retired at fifty-seven, the knives went quiet.
Not all at once. At first, he kept them polished and lined up on the counter, as if tomorrow he might need them again. But days passed. Then weeks. The sounds of clattering pans and shouted orders faded from his memory, replaced by wind and birds and the slow creak of wood.
Jacob built his house himself.
It stood at the edge of an old cemetery, where the iron gate no longer locked and the paths had softened into earth. Most people found the place unsettling. Jacob found it practical. The dead were good neighbors. They did not complain about noise. They did not ask questions. They stayed where they were placed.
His work as a grave digger came naturally. Digging demanded patience, awareness of soil and stone, an understanding of resistance. It reminded him of breaking down large cuts of meat—pressure, leverage, respect for what lay beneath the surface. He worked slowly, methodically, and the grounds remained clean because of it. Fallen leaves were cleared. Cracked headstones were propped and repaired. Fresh graves were straight and measured.
Jacob did not rush the dead.
The living, however, avoided him.
They saw a quiet old man with a straight back and unreadable eyes, living alone beside rows of names and dates. Jacob did not correct their assumptions. Solitude suited him. In silence, his thoughts stayed sharp. Order existed.
That evening, after finishing his rounds, Jacob took his usual walk along the river. It curved behind the cemetery, a narrow stretch of water that reflected the sky like dark glass. The air was cool, and the last light of the sun clung weakly to the horizon. He walked with his hands behind his back, posture unchanged by age.
As always, he observed.
Broken branches. Shifts in water flow. Mud disturbed by recent rain.
Details mattered.
That was when he saw it.
Something pale, half-submerged near the riverbank, caught between stones. At first, Jacob thought it was driftwood or discarded cloth. But the shape was wrong. Too smooth. Too deliberate.
He stopped.
The instincts that had guided him through kitchens and graves sharpened instantly. His pulse did not race. Instead, his mind began sorting possibilities.
A body.
The thought arrived fully formed, without emotion. Bodies were not strangers to him. But this one did not behave as it should. It did not move with the current. It did not sink or break apart. It lay still, as if placed there.
Jacob stepped closer.
Moonlight revealed long hair spread across the stones, dark and glossy. The figure wore elaborate clothing, unmarked by water or dirt. No tears. No signs of struggle.
Murder, he thought.
He crouched beside it, knees aching faintly, and studied the face. It was young. Too young. The skin was flawless, unbroken by time or injury. No swelling. No discoloration.
Wrong.
Jacob hesitated only a moment before reaching out.
His fingers brushed the arm.
Cold. Hard.
Not the yielding chill of flesh drained of warmth. Not the stiffness he knew so well. This was something else entirely—smooth and unyielding, like polished stone or fine ceramic. His fingertips slid slightly, unable to find pores or texture.
Jacob pulled his hand back slowly.
It felt like touching a thing made to look alive.
He studied the figure again, more carefully this time. The proportions were perfect. Too perfect. Even the expression on the face seemed deliberate, serene in a way that death rarely granted.
"Someone went through a lot of effort," he murmured to the river.
The thought of leaving it there did not sit well with him. Whether this was a body or something pretending to be one, it did not belong in the water. Jacob believed in proper placement. Everything had its place.
With practiced care, he lifted the figure. It was lighter than it should have been, as if the weight of life had never been inside it to begin with. He carried it toward the road, his steps steady, his breathing calm.
Behind him, the river flowed on, silent and indifferent.
Jacob did not know that this was the last moment he would ever walk as a man.