As the hearse turned into the entrance of Manchester Crematorium, Oakley’s eyes instinctively landed on the modest post box built into the old stone gatepost. It was something many might overlook—a simple, functional detail of the crematorium—but to Oakley, it held a lifetime of memories.
He could still feel it—the steady grip of Grand Acorn’s strong hands lifting him up as a child, helping him post paperwork through the slot.
"This is important work, Oakley," his father had said with a knowing smile. "These papers make sure everything is in order, so families don’t have to worry. It’s part of what we do."
Back then, Oakley had taken great pride in the task, slipping the neatly folded forms into the box, making sure they went all the way inside. Even as a young acorn, he understood—these weren’t just pieces of paper. They were documents that gave families reassurance in their most difficult moments.
Years later, Oakley found himself standing in that very same spot, but now, it was his own children looking up at him with eager eyes.
"Can I do it, Dad?" they’d asked, reaching for the same post box he once had.
"Of course," he had chuckled, lifting them just as his father had lifted him, watching as they carefully pushed the paperwork through. And now, as Oakley sat in the present, watching the hearse as it rolled past that same post box, he couldn’t help but wonder—would his children one day do the same? Would they continue the family tradition, carrying on the responsibility that had been passed down through generations?
It was a quiet, fleeting moment, but one that reassured him. Some things change with time, but others—the care, the responsibility, the promise to guide families with dignity—would always remain.
And with that thought, Oakley straightened his suit and stepped forward, ready to continue the work that had always been more than just a job. It was a legacy.
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