He zoomed in on the tuxedo. Pinned to the lapel was a boutonniere made of black roses—and a small, handwritten note that was just barely legible in the pixels.
He hadn’t been to a wedding in years. He wasn’t even dating. But the filename was specific, and curiosity, that old itch, got the better of him. He clicked "Extract."
Behind him, the door to his dark hallway creaked open. There was no one there, but the smell of lilies—the heavy, cloying scent of a funeral—suddenly filled the room.