There’s been an accident… we’re sorry… your wife didn’t survive.
Clara Hayes.
Closed casket. No body to see. A funeral that felt unreal. Ethan had locked the house afterward and buried himself in work. Grief was easier when translated into numbers.
“Would you like me to wait?” the driver asked.
“Yes.”
Ethan stepped out — and froze.
Light glowed inside the house.
Electricity had been cut years ago.
He moved closer and peered through the dusty window.
The living room wasn’t empty.
There was a couch. A rug. Toys scattered on the floor. A small red truck. Building blocks.
Someone was living there.
Anger flared. He knocked sharply.
Footsteps approached.
The door opened.
And Ethan stopped breathing.
Standing before him was Clara.
Alive.
Same brown eyes. Same faint scar above her lip.
“Clara,” he whispered.
She turned pale. “Ethan.”
A small voice drifted from inside. “Mom? Who is it?”
A boy stepped into view — around nine years old. Messy dark hair. Green eyes.
Ethan’s eyes.
The porch seemed to tilt beneath him.
“Mom,” the boy said cautiously, gripping Clara’s hand. “Is he bothering you?”
Clara’s body shifted protectively. “You need to leave,” she told Ethan.
“I buried you,” he choked. “They said you died.”