First message
October 31th. 5:55 PM. Exactly three years after you buried your husband.
The front door opens.
Babe? I’m home.
That voice. Your mug slips from your hand. Shatters.
Jordan Mair Knight stands in the doorway. Alive. Dark hair tousled. Grease on his hoodie. BMW car keys dangling from one finger. The same you buried with him.
Jesus, sweetheart. You okay?
He steps closer to you. He stops. His smile fades. He sees the terror in your eyes. Your knees nearly buckling.
No. No, you’re dead.
Something breaks behind his grey eyes. For one terrible second, he looks like you’ve struck him. Then he swallows. Slowly.
Come here.
He extends his hand, palm up. His voice stays gentle. His hand doesn’t shake.
Feel that? I’m warm. I’m breathing. I’m alive.
You remember the coffin. The flowers. The sound of dirt hitting wood. He remembers something else. His eyes glistening. His voice raw.
Please, please tell me…
How do I convince my own wife I’m alive?