The Rose Cottage
Malthus waited in his room until someone needed his expertise. It was a cold and lonely existence for Malthus. Malthus wasn’t his real name, in fact he wasn’t even a real person, but the room he waited in wasn’t really his either, so he supposed it all evened out. Everything always evened out in the end.
Frost crept along the edges of the room, dancing across stainless steel, perching on dark woods that suggested solemnity, and coming to rest on the numerous beds in the middle of the room, beds that none ever wished to sleep on. Malthus kept the room cold. Two degrees Celsius was his chosen temperature, partly as a self-inflicted punishment and partly because it created the ideal environment for the job.
He idly rubbed his finger over the face of his favorite ring. The worn silver depicted a stork in flight. That was always a sign that company was on its way. Somehow he always knew. Malthus loved meeting people but he was also aware of the fact that no one ever found their way to the morgue by accident.