It started with a tap. Soft. Measured. The kind of sound that might be mistaken for the wind brushing against the house if not for its persistence. Lena sat in the armchair, stiff as stone, staring at the front door like it might lunge at her. The knock crawled through the silence, sinking into the bones of the house and slipping between her ribs. Tap. Tap. Tap. Impossible. She had watched him die. She had buried him deep, the way you bury things you never want to see again.


Yet here he was.


Outside, the muggy air still clung to the porch, thick with the smell of rain-soaked earth. The light above buzzed faintly, flickering just enough to make the shadows stretch and shiver. And she saw him. She wanted to pretend she didn’t. But then


“Lena,” came the voice, low and familiar, slipping through the wood like breath over cold glass. “Open up.”


Her fingers curled into the armrests. He sounded the same. That slow, smooth drawl like he had expected this. Like he had never been gone at all.


Another knock. A pause. “You never were good at goodbyes.”


She moved without meaning to, her bare feet gliding across the floor. Her palm pressed to the door, nails digging into the wood. “You’re dead,” she whispered.


A pause.


And then laughter. Not loud. Not sharp. Just… knowing.


“Yeah,” he said. “I was.”


Her lungs squeezed tight, breath catching on the memory of that night—the sweat on her skin, the dirt under her nails, the finality of the last mound of earth. She had left him there. She had done everything right.


“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.


He sighed like she was being difficult. “You really should’ve buried me deeper.”