24 years of working as an “embalsamador” in Manila, every day I interacted with the dead—bathing, dressing them neatly in the funeral home. I thought I had become numb to life and death. I didn’t keep any of the money I earned, giving it all to my wife’s family in Cavite: paying for JR’s school fees, fixing their bahay ng pamilya, buying everything. Yet in my in-laws’ eyes, I was still just an “outsider”, never respected.

That afternoon, after a long tiring shift at a punerarya near Quezon Avenue, I trudged back to my boarding house’s eskinita. As soon as I reached the gate, I was stunned: the entire alley was covered with white wreaths, mourning tarps were erected all over the street, and a brass band was playing mournful music. My heart was pounding, my legs were trembling as I entered.

And then I collapsed on the spot when I saw the tarpaulin “In Loving Memory of…” hanging solemnly in the middle of the sala: it was my picture.

Relatives, neighbors, the whole family of the wife dressed in white, some praying with rosary beads, some wiping away tears; the condolence book was placed on the table, guests lined up to put in abuloy (money). But absolutely… no one recognized me standing there.

In a panic, I shouted:
— “I’m still alive! I’m not dead!”

My voice echoed in the mourning pavilion, the kandila flickered, but no one turned around. People even whispered:
— “Poor thing, he’s worked hard all his life for his wife’s family, now he’s this big, he must feel warm…”

I cried in vain. At that moment, from the kitchen, my wife — Grace — came out, holding a thick envelope in her hand, leaned over to JR’s ear and whispered…with a bright smile:
— “It makes no difference whether he’s alive or dead. Only when I’m considered dead will I be truly free…”

The whole barangay was still murmuring the rosaryo, the sampaguita wreaths gave off a pungent white smell. I stood in the crowd, the men’s barongs brushing my shoulders, but I was invisible. Twenty-four years as an embalsamador, I thought I knew the line between the living and the dead. It turns out there is another kind of death: when the hearts of those you care for have long since been buried, waiting for the tarpaulin to swell to legitimize a fake funeral — and legitimize their freedom with the abuloy of the world.

— “The Funeral of the Living”

I backed away from the tarpaulin like a sleepwalker. The smell of sampaguita was pungent, kandila wax ran down the sides of the glasses, the rosaryo hummed like nails in my ears. My picture hung in the middle of the sala, the words “In Loving Memory” printed boldly on the white tarpaulin. My wife — Grace — was still smiling, stuffing another envelope into her pocket. JR stood next to gom abuloy.

I swallowed hard, backed away to the kitchen. In my pocket was still the old phone, I turned on the recorder, held the phone close to the door, Grace’s voice was low but clear:

“He’s alive or dead, it makes no difference. Consider him dead, I’m free.”

I pressed save. My hands were shaking so much I almost dropped the phone.

I left the house like an invisible person, crossed the alley to the main road. My footsteps led me to the punerarya where I worked. The shutter was only half-open. Sir Manny — the shop owner — was taking notes. Seeing me, he frowned:
“Hey, Lando, why haven’t you rested since the morning shift?”

I told him briefly, my voice hoarse. Sir Manny was silent for a long time, then quietly pulled open the drawer and took out the logbook.

“Look. Three days ago, someone named Grace D., at your alley, ordered a ‘memorial set-up’ — a cheap wake package: canvas, flower platform, condolence book table, tarpaulin with photos. No body. Note: ‘Viewing only — no remains’. Attached is a blurry photocopied ‘certification of death’, with a suspicious round stamp.”

My heart sank. Not everyone was stupid enough to think I… had turned into a ghost. They were staging it on purpose.

“Let me borrow a photocopy.”

Sir Manny nodded: “Bring this too.” He handed over the deposit receipt, with Grace’s scrawled signature. “But ingat (be careful). You can’t be rash.”

I nodded. Leaving the punerarya, I rushed to the barangay hall. Kap Rodel was signing the papers. I spread out the documents, opened the recording file. Kap listened, took a deep breath, and slammed his hand on the table:

You blatant estafa (fraud)! Call the tanod immediately. And report the pulis.”

A young tanod ran to report the news. Kap turned to me: “Calm down. Let us do the work. You just need to show up at the right time.”

The afternoon was falling fast. On the way back to the alley, I saw a few more wreaths. Inside the tarpaulin, a “necrological service” was about to begin: a microphone was ready, a screen was showing a slideshow of my photos — from when I was young to when I wore the embalsamador uniform, moments I didn’t know who had taken.

I stood close to the edge of the tarpaulin. JR held the microphone, his voice choked:

“Kuya Lando… I’ve worked hard all my life for your family…”
Sniffling below. I saw the kumares of my wife’s family wiping away tears, fingering their rosaries.

Grace stepped forward. Her black dress was tight, her silver rosary necklace glittering. She spoke clearly, emphasizing each beat as if she knew the song:

“He’s resting in peace. From now on, I… will take care of everyone in your place.”

The amen echoed. She bowed her head, her shoulders shaking in a fake way. Then she looked up — a smile flashed like a cut.

I walked in. Straight ahead. No more dodging.

“Excuse me,” I said loudly enough, still as polite as I had been when I entered someone else’s home to do business. “The dead person in the photo… isn’t dead.”

The front row spun. The whole funeral pavilion swayed for a second. JR froze, dropping the microphone. Grace took a half step back, then… burst out laughing:

“What are you doing, Lando? Coming to ruin your own funeral?”

I put the phone on the podium and turned it on speaker. Grace’s voice from the kitchen in the afternoon poured out into the crowd, cold and numb: “It makes no difference whether he lives or dies. Consider him dead, then I will be free…

The air froze. A few gasps. An auntie stood up: “Grace! What are you talking about?”
I quietly placed two more pieces of paper on the table: the memorial set-up receipt “no remains” and a blurry photocopy of the “death certificate”.

At that moment, the pulis appeared. Kap Rodel and two tanods followed. A female police officer stepped forward, her voice firm:

“We received a report about the possibility of falsification (forged documents) and estafa. Please invite Grace and JR to presinto to clarify.”

JR turned pale and stammered. Grace stood still, her eyes still not leaving the envelope. She forced a smile:

“We… just held a massa prayer. No crime.”

Kap put his hand on the receipt: “No remains but set up a wake to call for abuloy, plus a blurry cert not going through the City Civil Registry — there are signs, hija.”

The female police officer nodded: “Please cooperate.”

In that chaotic moment, my mother-in-law — the woman with silver hair, who had been hiding behind the curtain — suddenly stood up, grabbed the envelope from Grace’s hand, and emptied it on the table: money was raining down. She sobbed:

“Enough, Grace! This family has suffered for twenty-four years. What you did is a sin against God!”

The whole place was silent. The horns in the street also stopped.

Grace broke down, struggling: “What do you know! I’ve been stuck for twenty-four years, everything is him. I want to live!”

I closed my eyes. Something in my heart was broken but at the same time… lighter. I had heard what I needed to hear.

That night, in the presinto, the testimony continued. Sir Manny brought another scanned copy of the contract, the pader (parish priest) of the parish confirmed that there was no official misa funebre permit, the City Civil Registry reported that there was no death certificate with my name on it. All of them gathered together like needles sewn into a distorted fabric of truth.

Near midnight, the police officer who took my statement asked me:

“Do you want to sue?”

I looked at my hands. The nails were darkened with formalin, calloused from years of carrying coffins. I said slowly:

“I want… to get my name back. And those who nailed my fake death to my name — must face it.”

“Civil or criminal, a lawyer will advise. But for now,” the policewoman wrote, “you need to be safe. Do you have somewhere else to stay?”

I nodded. I had a corner of an old bed in the punerarya: the only place I had seen living in the world of the dead.

The next morning, I returned to the alley. The funeral tarp had been removed. The wreaths were piled in a corner, the tarps were waiting for the garbage truck. The neighbors stood huddled together, their eyes filled with concern. Mother-in-law sat on a plastic chair, her hands trembling as she folded the money she had paid to the flower-offering owner, leaving behind a small ball like scrap paper.

Seeing me, she burst into tears:
“Son-in-law… I’m sorry. I was blind. From tomorrow on, I’ll sell kakanin in front of the alley, pay off my debt. Please forgive them, if… you still can.”

I wanted to say “yes,” but my throat was choked. I just bowed my head, clasped my hands as I habitually do when entering a house where someone had just “died.” Then I looked up:
“I don’t want anyone to go to jail if there’s a way to fix it. But I’ll make it clear. I’ll also go through the procedure: legal separation or annulment if possible. I need… to live.”

She nodded, crying like rain.

I gathered the tarpaulin with my photo on it. Holding it as lightly as holding… a piece of skin that had been peeled off a body. I folded it, stuffed it into a canvas bag, said goodbye to everyone, and headed toward Quezon Avenue. The Manila noon was dazzling. Dust and smoke swirled into a thin veil, but I could see it clearly: the road ahead, tangled, sparkling like a newly strung needle, waiting for someone’s hand to sew the shirt of my life straight.

The phone vibrated. A message from Ate Violy — a long-time colleague:
“Lando, tonight a family asked me to bathe a deceased person. They are poor, they pay little. Do you want to go?”

I replied:
“I will go. No fee. Just a hot bowl of lugaw.”

Ate sent a 🙏 icon. I smiled. For the first time, after my own funeral… I felt hungry

In the afternoon, in the cold room of the punerarya, I held the hands of an old man who had just passed away. Warm water flowed over his wrinkled skin. I said softly:
“Tao po… let me clean the dust of the world for you.”

Outside, the Manila sun poured down. Inside, the silence was like a word of forgiveness. I suddenly understood: my job was still the same — to preserve the last dignity for others. As for my own dignity, I would regain it bit by bit.

And that night, when the incense smoke before the coffin drew thin circles in the air, I knew that part 3 of my life would begin: facing the court, reclaiming my name, returning the truth, and… learning to live as a person who is seen, called by his name, even if it is only in his own whisper.