The Necropolis of Whispers

In The Necropolis of Whispers, mourners trade dried apricots for the memory of a first kiss. Third-class burials involve basic railcars with rough stone benches, while first class burials feature glass conservatories with intricate paper lanterns. The city's labyrinthine alleys whisper secrets to those who listen closely. Amidst the dry, cracked earth, a lone copper wire wind chime tolls a mournful melody. As night falls, the whispers coalesce into a single phrase: 'The past is currency.'