He texted me after his funeral.

The day I buried my fiancé, my phone vibrated.

At first, I ignored it.

The cemetery was crowded with black umbrellas and whispered condolences. My heart felt hollow. I couldn't imagine responding to anyone.

Then my phone vibrated again.

I glanced down.

My blood turned cold.

The message was from Ethan.

My fiancé.

The man we had buried three days earlier.

My hands shook as I opened it.

The text contained only four words.

"I'm alive. Don't tell anyone."

I stared at the screen.

I blinked.

Read it again.

And again.

Ethan was dead.

I had identified his body myself.

I had chosen his coffin.

I had stood beside his grave while they lowered him into the ground.

So who was texting me?

My breathing became uneven.

A second message arrived.

"They're watching you."

The phone slipped from my fingers.

I looked around the cemetery.

Everyone seemed normal.

The priest.

My friends.

My family.

Yet suddenly every face felt suspicious.

Every glance felt dangerous.

I picked up the phone.

"Ethan?" I typed.

No response.

Minutes passed.

Nothing.

That night I couldn't sleep.

I replayed the accident over and over.

The police said Ethan's car had gone off a bridge during a storm.

The vehicle had been destroyed.

His body had been recovered downstream.

Case closed.

Yet those messages felt real.

Terrifyingly real.

At 2:17 a.m., my phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number.

I answered immediately.

Silence.

Then breathing.

Slow.

Steady.

Human.

"Ethan?" I whispered.

For several seconds nobody spoke.

Then a man's voice said three words.

Words that made my heart stop.

"Check your closet."

The call ended.

I jumped from bed.

Every instinct screamed not to open the closet door.

But I did.

Inside, hanging among my clothes, was a black jacket.

Not unusual.

Except for one thing.

I had buried Ethan in that jacket.

And sewn inside the sleeve was a note written in his handwriting.

It said:

"They lied about my death."

END OF CHAPTER 1