Just another mourner, I told myself.
Just grief making a puppet out of darkness.
I pressed two fingers to my lips and then to the stone.
“I love you,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
Then I walked away.
I did not see the man step from behind the mausoleum after I passed through the gates.
I did not see him move toward his own grave.
I did not see Nicholas Moretti, very much alive, stand over the stone with a face carved from regret and watch me disappear into the rain.
Part 2
The message arrived at 11:47 p.m., just as I was crawling into bed wearing one of Nicholas’s old dress shirts and the kind of exhaustion that feels chemical.
Unknown Number:
You should not go to the cemetery alone.
I stared at the screen.
My apartment was silent except for the heater kicking like an old mule and the patter of rain against the windows.
I typed back immediately.
Who is this?
The response came after a pause so brief it felt like someone was standing outside my door thinking before speaking.
Someone who still worries about you.
My mouth went dry.
This isn’t funny.
I’m not laughing.
The cadence.
That was what did it.
Not the words.
The rhythm.
Nicholas had a way of speaking even in text that felt controlled and intimate at the same time, like he’d already stepped into the room before you realized the door was open.
I sat up straighter, pulse climbing.
Who are you?
Lock your doors, Claire. Keep the curtains closed tonight.
My entire body went cold.
How do you know my name?
No answer.
Then:
I know more than your name.
My hands started to shake.
Every instinct screamed prank, threat, cruelty.
And under all of it, another instinct rose, wild and impossible.
Hope.
I typed the words before I could stop myself.
Nick?
This time, the delay was longer.
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