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.

Or so she thought.

Another knock. Still gentle. Still wrong.

She edged toward the door, barefoot on the old hardwood floor. Her phone was charging in the bedroom. No weapon, no plan. Just curiosity twisted with dread.

Through the peephole, she saw him.

Same black coat. Same crooked grin. Same eyes that never quite looked sorry, even when they said sorry things.

“Paul?” she whispered.

He tilted his head, as if he’d heard. As if he’d always been able to hear her, no matter the walls, the dirt, or the coffin.

“I know you’re in there, Ella.” His voice was softer than she remembered. Calmer. More deliberate. “We need to talk.”

She stepped back. Her knees almost gave out. This wasn’t grief. This wasn’t imagination. He looked older, weathered—but real. Real enough to cast a shadow. Real enough to know her name.

“I buried you,” she muttered.

He knocked again. Louder this time.

“You did,” he said through the door. “But not deep enough.”

She ran.