The rehearsal room was freezing cold, on purpose. The cold helped people’s eyes water, and that was important for our work.

“Aisha, let’s try again,” I said, tapping the small metronome that kept time.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Aisha sat up straight on a metal chair. She was twenty-four but looked calm and soft, like someone who hadn’t faced life yet. She used to study theatre and film in university, and she was very good at controlling her voice and face. That made her perfect for the Nightshift Keepers—our company.

Our job was unusual: We cried at funerals for families who couldn’t cry themselves. We didn’t pretend to be sad for fun. We cried so that other people feel safe enough to show their emotions too.

“You cried at the wrong time,” I told Aisha gently. “Your tears need to fall before the count reaches 215. That’s how we know the emotion will spread to the room.”

She nodded. She always listened carefully.

“What memory are you using today?” I asked.

“The train tracks outside my window… the day my father left,” she began.

“Stop,” I said quickly. “That’s too painful. We never use real trauma. We use tiny sad ideas—like the smell of old mothballs or a squeaky door. Just enough to look sad, not enough to hurt your heart.”

Aisha reset her face, tried again, and this time her tears came right on time. Good technique—perfect performance. But they were not real emotions. They were only tools.

“You are the lighting,” I reminded her. “You help others shine. You are not the star.”

The Rules of Our Work The Nightshift Keepers had three important rules:

Rule 1: The 180-Second Cry. Our crying must last exactly three minutes. This duration is long enough to show love. Still, it is not long enough to interrupt the ceremony.

Rule 2: The Emotional Tariff Before every job, we write down something small we are sad about. This is something like losing a key or arguing with a friend. We then burn the paper. This helps us release a little sadness so we don’t explode with real feelings during work.

Rule 3: The Void We must never use personal, painful memories. If we do, we lose control.

After two years, I didn’t feel anything anymore. My heart was so empty and calm that I didn’t need to burn paper at all. I was the best at my job because nothing ever touched me.

The Senator’s Funeral

One Tuesday night, we got a big job. Senator Edmund Vance, a famous leader, had died suddenly. His family was known for always staying strong and quiet, even during tough times. But the public expected them to show big sadness.

Beatrice, the senator’s daughter, spoke to me directly.

“We can’t stay stiff today,” she said softly. “People need to see we are hurting. Please help us.”

This job was huge. Cameras would be everywhere. I chose the best team—and put Aisha in the front row.

The cathedral was large and full of flowers. The Vance family sat in the first row, their faces still and serious. I gave my tiny signal.

A soft cry began in the back—one of our team members. Then another. Soon the sound moved across the room like a quiet wave. People shifted. Cameras turned.

Then came Aisha’s moment.

During Beatrice’s speech, Aisha let out a perfect trembling breath. One shiny tear rolled down her cheek. It looked natural, gentle, and honest. The whole room felt it. Even Beatrice’s voice cracked, and she finally cried for real.

We had succeeded. The room was opening up emotionally.

But then something went wrong.

Aisha didn’t stop.

Her three minutes passed. Then more. Her sobs became louder and rougher. Not controlled. Not rehearsed. They were real.

This was the worst thing that happen. She had broken Rule 1 and Rule 3. Her personal pain had taken over.

I rushed to her side and held her arm, pressing the shutdown spot.

“Stop, Aisha,” I whispered. “Come back.”

But she couldn’t. Her body shook.

“It’s my mother,” she whispered. “I never cried at her burial. I never even saw the coffin go down…”

Her pain was overflowing. And now the whole funeral was watching her instead of mourning the senator.

I led her out quietly, pretending to comfort her. We stepped into the cool outside air.

Aisha’s Truth On a bench nearby, Aisha cried until she talked again.

“I’m sorry,” she said between breaths. “I saw Beatrice crying for her father, and suddenly I felt everything I had hidden.”

She looked small and tired, like a child who had been strong for far too long.

I realized something then: Aisha hadn’t failed the Craft. She had simply been too human.

And I—who never cried—was the one who had become less than human.

The Big Change Back at the office, I didn’t scold her. I gave her an envelope with her full pay plus extra.

“You’re free,” I said. “Not because you failed. But because this job isn’t safe for someone who still feels so deeply.”

l turned and walked away.

On my desk for the last time, l Wrote my resignation letter. Left all our tools behind—the scents, the sounds, the rules.

I went to a quiet chapel where I used to practice with trainees. The room was empty and peaceful. I sat down, pressed the tear trigger, and waited.

Nothing.

For the first time, I wasn’t trying to make someone else cry. I wasn’t trying to teach or lead. I was just sitting with myself.

I let my smallest sadness—a tiny regret I once burned—rise inside me. It grew bigger. It connected to things I had ignored for years.

And then, at last, I cried.

Not neat, perfect tears. But real ones.

Ugly, shaking, honest tears.

They lasted longer than any three-minute rule. When they finally stopped, the silence felt warm instead of empty.

The grief was mine.

And I knew, at last, that it wasn’t something I sell.

Jane Wacuru