Here's the thing about immortality they don't put on the label: your body becomes a stage prop. You can fall from a staircase, have your neck twisted like a bottle cap, or take an axe to the ribcage—and you'll still wake up. Polishing. Patching. Spraying silver paint over the cracks. But the cracks are still there.

...was being forgotten while still alive.

So they tumble. They shatter. They glue themselves back together. And somewhere in the dark, a younger woman watches them and thinks, "I'll do it better."

The real horror isn't death. It's the morning after death, when you have to hold your own head on straight and smile for brunch.