Loyalty cards, neon in absolute black, and checkouts that beep like electrocardiograms: the end has found its own endcap corner.
In the window, “flash-sale” coffins and glittered urns; inside, a scent of incense and clearance.
They raised the shutter at 7 a.m., just early enough that the city didn’t have time to pretend it didn’t see. Outside “Last Minute,” they’re handing out black balloons stamped “Soon” and perfume samples called “Cold Room No. 5.” Between two endcaps, a full-length mirror invites you to “try on your eternity in 30 seconds flat,” while an employee offers express engraving: name, dates, and a little emoji optional.
“I thought it was a candle shop,” confides a customer leaving with a faux-mahogany model. “Turns out it’s friendly: you compare, you negotiate, you project yourself… I went for the ‘Eclipse’ edition; it’ll go with my curtains.” Around them, people gush over the accessories: anti-memory cushions, silent playlists, and those candles that never go out—except when politely asked.
Neighbors swear they hear a catchy jingle with every sale, a little “ding” that sticks to the ceiling like a November fly. The “Click & Mourning” service promises discreet delivery before sunset, gift wrap included. You leave with a kraft paper bag and the feeling you’ve landed the deal of the century—literally.
Tonight, a raffle: one lucky winner will get their name engraved in advance, “so as not to waste time when there isn’t any left.” Management assures us, with a hand-stitched smile: more “to-die-for” surprises arrive as soon as tomorrow. The stock, meanwhile, doesn’t budge—which is reassuring, isn’t it?
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