He stared at her, unable to respond.
“Do you want me to prove it?” she added, meeting his eyes with steady confidence, like someone used to not being believed.
A chill spread through him—deeper than the cold air.
“What could you possibly know?” he muttered.
“My name is Emma,” she said, standing and brushing dirt from her knees. “I made something about your wife. You need to see it.”
Before he could react, she slipped the shovel into her backpack and walked away.
Daniel stood frozen, staring at the disturbed ground.
What if she wasn’t just a confused child?
What if she was telling the truth?
He stayed there for a long time, staring at the small hole she’d left behind. He crouched and touched the cold earth, his fingers trembling.
He remembered everything—the funeral, the closed casket, the flowers, the quiet condolences. He had watched the coffin being lowered.
That couldn’t have been a lie.
Could it?
That night, he didn’t sleep.
He lay staring at the ceiling, Emma’s words echoing over and over.
This grave isn’t real.
Before sunrise, he was already driving back.
And she was there.
Emma sat on the grass, knees pulled to her chest, waiting.