The man she buried is back and knocking

Ella froze. The knock was soft—almost polite. But it rattled through her bones like thunder.

It had been three years. Three long, lonely years since she’d stood beside an open grave, rain soaking through her veil, watching the coffin of her husband—ex-husband, really—sink into the mud. Paul had died in a car crash. No witnesses, only twisted steel and fire. She’d cried, of course. But not for love. For relief.

He was gone. Finally.