When a human dies, a name card comes down to the Veil a week before d-day . Nobody knows where they come from, not even me, and that is saying something. They don't get printed by some celestial office worker hunched over a typewriter. They simply...appear by way of mail boxes.
Each department has one: a little metal box with a single slot that, through some unexplained metaphysical nonsense, spits out the cards exactly where they need to go. No mess, no fuss, no lost parcels. The whole system functions with the eerie precision of a Swiss watch.
And while the Veil is a perfect mirror of the living world, with all the conveniences one might expect, its postal service is second to none. Divine bureaucracy at its finest. No one runs or maintains it. And yet, it never breaks down. Which, quite frankly, is suspicious in itself.
And this has always been the way, except for that one moment the system acknowledges something—or someone—special.
When a saint dies, The Postman appears.
Seven days before Clark Parker dies, the P-man, as they like to call him, visits the Veil. And he is, without a doubt, impossible to miss.
Among the legions of black-clad functionaries, he's the only one dressed in all white, like Elvis.
From shoes to trousers, top, hat, even his mailbag—the whole dazzling ensemble.
He does not have a name, but I like calling him Stan. I don't know, he looks like a Stan.
And being Stan has its perks, he can clear security without being frisked, does not need to tap an ID and he is not required to make an appointment to see the Chief of the Veil —the old Madam.
Stan, ever the charmer, drops his bag on the Chief's desk and pulls out a single white name card.
"By hand delivery only," he says, grinning. "And my, my, you have not aged a day! How long's it been? A century?"
The Chief, to her credit, doesn't roll her eyes. "Four decades," she corrects. "And I could say the same about you. Except... did you cut your hair?"
"Glad you noticed! Trimmed it up. Thought it might help with the ladies." He beams like a man who fully expects to get away with nonsense. "That's our girl, isn't it?"
The Chief unfolds the card. The name gleams in silver ink. Not red, like the usual lot. No, silver is reserved for the rarest of souls—for an S-A-I-N-T.
Stan whistles low. "Quite a record, five hundred years, reincarnated thirteen times to live a cruel life. I never thought she would make it." Stan shakes his head in disbelief but the look on his face, shows a tint of respect for that one soul who was able to endure it.
Not me. I always believed in her! I regret that we did not take bets for this.
"I watch them everyday, and you would think you know everything there is to know about them. And yet," the Chief gently touches the name on the card, "there are some who can still surprise you."
She knows this is not just a name card, this is a pardon . Her five hundred years of suffering in life will end, and the next time she is reincarnated, she will have a happy and long life, finally.
"Twice a saint, can you believe it?" Stan praises. "On her first and last life, I mean who even refuses sainthood the first time?"
"She had a reason." Yes, only a select few in the Veil knows about that. Including yours truly.
"Ah, yes." Stan snaps his fingers remembering, "Was it worth it?"
"We will find out." The Chief presses a button on her phone, "Clarissa, call Matthew in."
"I won't keep you then." Stan adjusts his bag and fixes his hair under the hat preparing to leave, "It's good to see you, Chief, and send my regards to your new saint."
"Did the memo get to you? We call them Nobles now."
Stan wrinkles his nose the sound of that seemed so unpleasant for him. "Nobles? Really? Who even comes up with these things?"
Exactly my point, you tell them my man! I knew there was a reason I like you.
The phone on the Chief's desk rings saving her from having to explain the bureaucratic absurdity of it all.
"Yes, Clarissa?"
"The Head Reaper is here to see you."
"Great, send him in." She extends her hand to shake the postman's, "I'll see you on the next one."
"What a timing, eh?" he accepts her hand cordially before going for the door. He goes out and brushes past the Head Reaper walking in.
Matthew, without turning, catches a glimpse of him in his peripherals, he knows who he is, because everyone knows the P-man. And if he is there, he knows a saint is about to be collected.
"You asked for me." he greets, "You want me to collect a saint."
He is not one for small talk. No pleasantries or even questions about the weather, just goes straight for the jugular.
"Come sit." Chief beckons for the chair next to him but he did not take it. He remains standing as he make a quick glance on the time on his watch.
"Alright!" she waves her hand in dismissal, "I won't keep you for long."
A bit flustered with the chief's reaction to his hastiness, he takes a step back and bows his head in apology.
"Just take this." She hands the white card to him. "You know what to do."
Inside the card is the name we are all familiar with:
Clark Cornelia Parker
The printed silver letters sparkling in the light makes him squint. He cannot remember the last time he saw one of those.
"I expect you want the whole nine yards? There will be two bus accidents and an earthquake scheduled at this same time next week, but I will see what I can do. I will make sure to have enough reapers on site, make this as grand as possible."
She smiles at him; she can't help it. Even with his directness at times, Matthew knows how to say the right things when called for. Many believe he was a former aristocrat in his past life, eloquent with a face that could make one forgive all offenses.
You might not know this, but Matthew is our reaper poster boy. Tall, mysterious, can slice a sinner into pieces, but so likable even ghosts prefer him.
"She does not want grand. She asked for you."
You see, even our saint wants to be a member of the 'I love Matthew' fan club.
"She made a request?"
"In a way." the Chief arranges the folders on her desk trying to avoid meeting his eyes, "In a prayer she asked for the best. And Matthew, take Clarence with you, might do him some good to once in awhile escort someone that is not a sinner or a rogue soul. Billy too, you know, show our young ones the joys of reaping."
"Billy will like that, Clarence on the other hand—"
"It was not a suggestion." She interrupts.
"Understood." Matthew bows his head in acceptance even though I know deep within, he wants to protest.
Getting Clarence to do anything is worse than escorting a sinner to hell. Matthew picks up his phone, "Billy, I need you to find out Clarence's schedule for next week."
Billy, the famously capable second year reaper, quickly searches through the system, "This region, New Haven. He is investigating a case of a rogue soul, they feared it's transforming to a Type 2. Flagged as priority."
"Well, that's lucky. Good job."
It seems he does not have to try so hard to get him on site, when Clarence's schedule already dictates him to be there. It feels like everything is arranged, according to plan.
Good, good, yes what luck. But there is no such thing as a coincidence, is there?