Prompt:
A mortician has the ability to restore the body and soul of a deceased person at the cost of 1 year off of his/her lifespan. Tell of the events leading up to his/her death.


ESTP:
The mortician's hands trembled as he injected the elixir into the corpse's carotid artery. Dr. Elias Voss never named his concoction; it was a macabre ballet of chemicals and willpower, a secret stolen from a forgotten grimoire during his residency. The first time he'd revived someone—a teenage car crash victim with shattered ribs—he'd laughed until he vomited. Now, eight resurrections later, his reflection had the hollows of a man twice his 42 years. 

Each revival cost him 365 days. He'd scribbled the tally on the autopsy room wall: **12 years gone**. The families paid in cash and silence, their gratitude too raw to articulate. But Elias craved something sharper than money: absolution. His wife's ghost lingered in the autopsy reports he'd forged to hide her overdose, her face blurred in his memory like ink smudged on wet paper. 

The final client arrived at midnight—a woman in a bloodied wedding dress, clutching a photo of a boy with her hazel eyes. 'My son,' she rasped. ‘Drowned three days ago.' Elias hesitated; the child's file listed a cerebral hemorrhage. Reviving him would mean erasing every memory of his wife, every scar, every phantom ache. But the mother's scream when he hesitated—raw, animalistic—sealed it. 

He worked like a man possessed, suturing time itself. The boy gasped awake, lungs heaving, as Elias collapsed. His vision tunneled, the walls bleeding black. The mother's joy was a distant hum beneath the roar of his own pulse. He'd known the math: this resurrection would leave him 38 days old. But as his fingers crumbled to ash, he wondered if the grimoire's final footnote had been a warning—"The soul's essence cannot be borrowed, only surrendered." 

The police found him mid-autopsy, scalpel still in hand, a stranger's face frozen on the table. His final act: a resurrection attempt on himself, the elixir's formula scorched into his palm. The wall tally now reads **13 years gone**. The boy lives, the mother weeps, and the morgue's new owner keeps the lights off. They say Elias haunts the embalming room, forever mixing a potion to cheat the ledger one last time.


INFP:
In the fog-draped town of Wraithmere, Mortician Silas Vane worked in a chapel of marble and ivy, where death lingered like incense. His gift was whispered—a touch that could mend shattered bones and reignite extinguished souls, but each resurrection etched a crack in his own vitality. For decades, he'd traded years for second chances, his reflection aging decades while his heart stayed eternally twenty. 

The first time he'd used his power, a child drowned in the river had gasped back to life, her mother's scream of joy costing him three autumns. He'd smiled then, cradling the trade. But time's ledger is merciless. By 56, his hair silvered; by 62, his hands trembled. Yet he never refused a soul.

One dusk, a carriage wreck claimed the town's mayor—a man who'd once spared Silas's orphaned brother from the gallows. The mayor's daughter, Liora, arrived at the chapel, her eyes twin storms. ‘He saved my father's life once. Now save his death,' she pleaded. Silas hesitated; his breath already came in frost, his vision blurring at the edges. But Liora's voice echoed his brother's last words: "The world's worth saving."

He laid his palms on the mayor's chest. Light erupted, golden and searing, as the man's heart stuttered awake. Silas collapsed, his veins crystallizing like old ink. He had one hour left, the clock inside him ticking its final quarter.

In his final moments, Silas didn't mourn. He watched Liora weep gratitude, her tears a balm. Outside, dawn broke—a color he'd never see again. But as his soul unraveled, he felt no fear. He'd spent his life stitching broken things, and in the end, his own thread had frayed into something beautiful: a legacy of mercy, woven into eternity's loom.