Journal Entry 1:

July 15th

Today was different. As I prepared the body of a young man, I felt an overwhelming presence in the room. It was as if he was speaking to me, his voice clear and desperate. He told me his name was Mark, and that he died from sheer exhaustion. He had worked three jobs, trying to support his family, never taking a moment for himself. Mark's words echoed in my mind all day, a stark reminder of the toll this system takes on us. It's haunting to think that these people aren't just statistics; they're souls worn down to their very core.

Journal Entry 2:

July 21st

Today, I felt a wave of disgust I can barely put into words. Every profile I receive now has these sanitized, soulless buzzwords. "Dedicated team player," "passionate worker," "resilient performer." It's as if their true lives, their real struggles and identities, have been scrubbed clean and replaced with corporate jargon.

I prepared the body of a woman named Laura. The file said she was an "industrious contributor," but the voice told me she was a nurse who spent her nights holding the hands of the dying, comforting those in their final moments while she herself was exhausted and neglected. She died of overwork and heartbreak, not some abstract corporate ideal.

Journal Entry 3:

August 1st

I can't take these pills anymore. They dull the voices, but they don't stop the truth. The dead are speaking to me, and I can't ignore them. They need someone to hear their stories, to understand their pain. If I keep taking the meds, I'll lose that connection. I refuse to be blind to their suffering any longer. They deserve to be heard, and I need to stay awake. The truth is too important to be silenced.