Whoever thought seeing the future was a gift, had never met my husband.
He was in the back of our cargo carriage. Hammering away at yet another coffin. The death count in this town made me hold my breath in fear. It was the longest we have spent in one area. The denizens were dropping like flies.
Despite this, the quality of my Jeremy’s coffins hadn’t wavered. He worked day and night, selling about two coffins a day.
Even after a year, I had not an inkling of what had happened to him. He was the sweetest husband a woman could belong to. Tending to the best horses in Wales. Then one morning he just -- changed. He packed our things, and we rode out in our carriage and tow. He didn’t know where we were going, until we got there. He would buy all the wood he could find.
And he built coffins.
That was it.
He rarely slept. He never ate. It was a blessing I could get him to drink, I had to crush his food to pulp, just so he didn't starve himself to death.
The same thing had happened to our two horses, they'd stopped eating, but their strength increased two-fold. He talked to them as if they are his brothers. His expression only softened around them. Never me.
Jeremy scared me, he changed so drastically. I still loved him, though.
I stirred the soup sitting on a petty fire in the middle of the plaza. No one would dare open their home to us. I did not blame them. So we parked our horses in the there. No body complained.
I left the soup be for a moment, to check on Jeremy. “Who is this one for, honey?”
He remained silent a moment running his fingers along the intricate carvings in the wood of the coffin. His glazed eyes never left it, he replied, “the blacksmith.”
His tone was as bland as ever. I missed the eagerness in his voice, so much.
I couldn’t help but cast a sympathetic look to the blacksmith’s open shop. He was the healthiest looking man in town. I did not want to think of what might befall that poor man.
I returned to the soup, mashing the soft carrots against the inside of the cast iron pot. Slow footsteps on the cobblestone echoed behind me, another customer, I presumed. No one would approach us otherwise.
“Mr. Bund,” croaked the voice of a man, “I --”
“Your wife passed on. My condolences, Mr. Raize.” Jeremy mumbled loud enough for the man to hear, his voice showed him no condolence. I turned to see who it was. A stubby, dumbfounded old man stood there. Jeremy dragged a coffin to over to the man, it was the one he had just finished last night. I liked that one, a pretty floral wreath carved in the center.
“Marie was a good wife, was she not?” Said my husband.
Mr. Raize nodded, studying the coffin. Amazement raised his brow. Grief clouded his eyes. “Poppies. Marie loved poppies.” The old man choked.
“I know.”
Mr. Raize emptied his wallet onto my husband’s work table. “Will this be enough?” It was easily seen that he was failing to keep his composure.
Jeremy didn’t look to check the amount. He never did for anyone. He just kept his eyes on Mrs. Raize’s new coffin. “Yes.”
That look, he gave that look to every coffin he sold. As if he was watching his own children leave for better things. Jeremy offered to help the old man get the coffin home, and together they lugged the coffin.
“I’ll be back, Margeret. Keep an eye on my work.”
I nodded obediently, checking on the soup.

Eventually the coffin was out of sight. I took that as a cue to abandon dinner for the moment, stepping up into the tow carriage. I enjoyed examining his works occasionally. It reminded me of how much hidden passion he had for this labor. I enjoyed the smell his work produced as well. Freshly cut wood, metal tools, wood stain.
His trance was surprisingly the most interesting thing I have ever experienced. As unnerving as it was. It put our love through the most difficult test possible.
Such lovely coffins. The one he was nearly finished with had flame engulfing a quail feather. Some of his carvings made no sense. They were utterly beautiful, despite this. Inside the tow were three others-- he really had a lot of work on his plate.
One was of a bouquet of various lilies.
Another of an ocean view, storm clouds gathering in the sky.
The last one caught my eye, it was the most complicated and detailed coffin I had ever seen him make. The entire cover was decorated, a border made of hundreds of irises weaved together. A woman, that almost appeared to be a saint, was framed in the center. Holding a child in her arms. Her face was one of a saint for sure, one of pure beauty-- with such a fine layer of age, pain, regret, and grief. One that would make a sinner weep. The depth of the carving made it seem as if gentle sunlight blanketed the woman.
I must’ve been staring at that coffin for a long while. I was jerked from my daze by the sound of one of our horses neighing. I stepped out of the carriage, almost regretting leaving the coffin. Just in time to see our dinner boiling over.
“Agh!” I scrambled to the pot, scraping the burning vegetable and meat from the bottom of the pot with a sodden wooden spoon. I wrapped my hands in the hem of my dress, heaving the iron pot off the flame. Like any good wife, I was able to fix a meal at the drop of a hat. I finally had the soup cooled, and was ladling it into a bowl for Jeremy and myself. He returned just as I had placed his bowl on his work table.
“Thank you.” he muttered, and continued his work by firelight. I knew he did not enjoy working in the dark, it made his performance less than exemplary. He held the bowl in one palm as he scrutinized the invisible flaws in his work, all the while taking large gulps of his soup.
I cleared my throat, I was so curious about that stunning coffin, I had to ask.
After some time I gathered the courage.
“Jeremy?"
“Yes?” He'd swallowed down the last of his soup.
“Who is that coffin with the woman on it for? Is there a queen dying? A priest?” I twiddled my thumbs in angst.
His voice remained steady, like he was talking to another customer.

“It’s yours, darling.”