The man I buried is back and knocking.

I had just finished planting the roses, somewhere safely in the shade, when the doorbell rang. My heart stopped.

I shuffled to the door as fast as my bones would allow but didn’t open it. I crouched behind the couch instead, breathing in short, panicked bursts, praying he’d grow tired. Or confused. Or think this was the wrong house.

But no. He knocks again.

You don’t forget the house where you’ve been buried.

I peer through the peephole. He is gone. Just... gone. I feel ten years younger, confused and my back is hurting. But something is wrong.

Am I losing my mind?

I unlock the door, inch by inch. No one, just a cardboard box on the porch.

I tiptoe towards it. My chest is tight and my eyes won’t blink.

I touch it, then draw my hand back. Touch it again.

I don’t know if I am being careful or if the madness has already started.

Finally, I pick it up and carry it inside.