Horizon Beyond Travel had a niche: vacations for the deceased. It catered to families who wanted loved ones’ ashes scattered in meaningful places, to wills that specified posthumous road trips, to cultures that believed spirits appreciated a good itinerary. Their brochures were tasteful: sunsets, mountains, disclaimers about local laws. They offered “Ashes at Altitude,” “Mingling with Monsoons,” and “Last Ride Route 66.”
Lila worked in bookings. She fielded calls from grieving families and adventurous ghosts. One morning, she received an unusual request: a living customer. “I want to book my own posthumous trip,” said Mr. Garcia, voice crackling with age. “I don’t trust my kids to get it right.” He specified: scatter some ashes in his hometown river, leave some at his favorite jazz club, and send a pinch to the Moon via a commercial payload. Lila explained costs. He transferred savings. “It’s my last splurge,” he said, laughing.
Horizon had strict protocols: permits for scattering, respect for local customs, environmental considerations. They employed “guides,” part mortician, part travel agent, who carried ashes in secure urns, documented dispersal with geo-tagged photos. They treated remains like VIP clients. Critics called it morbid. Clients called it closure.
Problems arose. A volcanic eruption closed airspace over a planned scatter site. The agency rerouted to a nearby hill, calling the client’s family for approval. A prankster tried to book a scatter at a rival’s headquarters. Denied. Once, a guide’s luggage was lost with an urn inside. Panic ensued. The airline found it two hours later. The guide nearly quit.
Lila grew attached to itineraries. She imagined the dead enjoying views. She knew it was for the living, mostly. Still, she felt responsible. She started adding small touches: playing the deceased’s favorite song during a scatter, telling them a joke if they liked humor. She wasn’t sure if it mattered. It mattered to her.
One day, Horizon received a lawsuit. A family claimed their loved one’s ashes had been mixed up. Horizon investigated. Records showed all urns sealed and labeled. Yet DNA tests on returned urns suggested an error. Panic. They halted bookings. Lila reviewed logs. She found a glitch: a software update had swapped two itinerary codes. Two clients’ ashes had crossed paths: one had wanted mountains, the other the sea. Families were distraught.
The CEO held a meeting. “We will fix this transparently.” They contacted families, offered to retrieve any remaining ashes, offered reparations, offered ceremonies at both sites. Some families forgave. One did not. Horizon implemented stricter checks, including manual verification. Lila cried, feeling she had betrayed trust. She almost quit. Then she received a letter from Mr. Garcia’s family. His ashes had reached the Moon via a small vial on a rocket. They sent a photo of the launch. “He would have loved this,” they wrote. Lila stayed.
Horizon expanded services: virtual reality feeds for those who couldn’t travel with the ashes, counseling referrals. They partnered with environmental groups to ensure scattering didn’t harm ecosystems. They started a pro bono fund for families without means. Critics softened, seeing care.
When Lila’s own grandmother died, she used her employee discount to book “Ashes with the Aurora.” She traveled as guide, standing under green lights, releasing a handful of ash into cold air. She whispered a lullaby. She felt silly and profound at once. She realized Horizon wasn’t just moving ashes; it was moving grief into ritual, giving shape to the desire to keep traveling together. She wrote a new brochure blurb: “Journeys don’t end. We help you take one more, together.”