The man she buried is back and knocking.

Clara’s teacup clattered onto the table, sloshing amber liquid onto her journal. The sound at the door was unmistakable—three slow, deliberate raps, a pause, then three more. She’d buried him herself, three years ago. In the rain. Under the willow tree at the edge of the property. She’d dug the hole, lowered his body, and covered it with earth, whispering a prayer for the dead.

Now, the knocking came again.

Clara’s hands trembled. She rose from her chair, her breath shallow, and crept to the front door. The brass handle was cold beneath her fingers. She hesitated, then flung it open.

No one was there.

The night was still, the air thick with the scent of rain and pine. The porch light flickered, casting long, shifting shadows. Clara’s heart hammered in her chest.

Then, from behind her, a voice: “Hello, Clara.”

She spun around. He stood in the hallway, tall and gaunt, his face pale as moonlight. He wore the same clothes she’d buried him in—dark jeans, a blue shirt, now stained with mud. His eyes were deep, hollow, and impossibly alive.

“You’re dead,” she whispered.

He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Am I?”

Clara’s mind raced. She remembered the night she’d found him in the woods, the rain pouring down, his body still and cold. She remembered the shovel, the dirt, the way the earth had swallowed him whole.

“Why are you here?” she asked, voice shaking.

He stepped closer. “To tell you the truth.”

Clara backed away. “What truth?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver locket. He held it out to her. “Do you remember this?”

Clara’s breath caught. The locket was hers. She’d lost it years ago—the night he disappeared.

“Where did you get that?” she demanded.

“You gave it to me,” he said. “The night I died.”

Clara shook her head. “That’s impossible. I buried you. I saw your body.”

He sighed. “Did you, Clara? Did you really?”

She hesitated. The memory was hazy, blurred by grief and shock. She’d been so sure it was him. But now, doubt crept in.

“What are you saying?” she whispered.

He stepped closer, his voice soft. “I’m saying you made a mistake. The man you buried wasn’t me.”

Clara’s mind reeled. “Then who was it?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and took her hand. His fingers were cold, but solid. “Come with me,” he said.

Clara hesitated, then nodded. She followed him out the door, into the night. The air was cool, the stars bright overhead. They walked to the willow tree, where the ground was still slightly sunken from the grave.

He knelt, brushing his fingers over the earth. “Dig,” he said.

Clara’s hands shook as she picked up the shovel she’d left leaning against the tree. She dug, her muscles aching, her heart pounding. The earth gave way easily, as if it wanted to be opened.

She uncovered the sheet she’d wrapped the body in. It was stained with dirt and time. She pulled it back, her breath ragged.

Beneath the sheet was a skeleton—but not a human one. It was a mannequin, its plastic bones bleached white, its face a blank mask. Tucked into its ribcage was a photograph.

Clara picked it up, hands trembling. The photo was of her, standing in front of the house, smiling. Written on the back, in her own handwriting: “Forgive me.”

She looked up at him, confusion and fear in her eyes. “What is this? What does it mean?”

He smiled sadly. “It means you never buried me, Clara. You buried your guilt. Your fear. Your past.”

She shook her head. “But I saw you. I buried you.”

“No,” he said. “You buried the person you thought you were. The person you wanted to forget.”

Clara’s eyes filled with tears. “Then who are you?”

He stepped closer, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m the part of you that remembers. The part that never died.”

Clara’s vision blurred. The world seemed to tilt. She felt herself falling, but he caught her, his arms strong and warm.

When she opened her eyes, she was alone. The night was silent, the willow tree swaying gently in the breeze. The grave was empty, the mannequin and photograph gone.

Clara stood, her heart lighter than it had been in years. She walked back to the house, the truth settling over her like a warm blanket.

She knew now—she’d never buried him. She’d only been burying herself.

And as she stepped inside, she heard a whisper on the wind: “Goodbye, Clara.”

She smiled, knowing she was finally free.

Epilogue

Clara moved away the next spring. She sold the house, packed her things, and left the town behind.

Years later, she returned, curious about the old place. The new owners had renovated, but the willow tree still stood, its branches sweeping the ground.

As she walked toward it, she saw something glinting in the grass. She bent down and picked it up—it was the silver locket, tarnished but intact. She opened it, and inside was a tiny photograph of her and a man she barely remembered, both of them smiling.

Clara smiled too, and for the first time, she felt no pain.

She left the locket beneath the willow tree, a gift for the next person who needed to remember—or to forget.

cassandra faulkner

@starofcasanova

Port Saint Lucie Florida

cassandra faulkner has not written a story.