In the dimly lit aisles of a big-box store on the outskirts, a new “Last Passage” corner offers foldable coffins, disposable mourning veils, and timed wakes. Neon promise: “Cheaper than life,” payment in 24 easy, remorse-free installments.
At opening time, the shopping carts jam in front of the on-sale lily aisle, where a host, mic in hand, pitches an “express burial” between the detergent aisle and the gluten-free section. The labels tout clever bundles: pack of 3 candles + 1 silence free, serenity guaranteed under cellophane. Overhead, a screen runs a tutorial: how to fold a memory in three simple steps, returns within 14 days if the grief doesn’t suit.
Asked for comment, the chain’s spokeswoman, Léontine Ravage, opts for transparency: “We only bury the prices; the rest is after-life service.” She swears the “Last Breath” loyalty program doesn’t push anyone to rush, even if each tier unlocks a biodegradable plastic wreath. “It’s a complete customer experience, with optional spray-on tears,” she adds, a coal-black smile.
In the neighborhood, some residents already dread the Saturday lines: “We came for tomatoes, we’re leaving with a minute of silence and a discount coupon on forgetting,” grumbles a customer with an empty basket. Employees, in dusk-colored gloves, scan the farewells to the registers’ continuous beep, while the sound system plays lullabies in a minor key. The store announces for next week a “Black Fri-day of the Dead”: trade-in of worn memories, home delivery of condolences and, at the entrance, a reassuring sign — “Please deposit your joy here. Blunt object.”
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