Midnight at the chapel, I approached the coffin. Suddenly, my husband’s eyes snapped open. Trembling, he pressed a finger to his lips. My sons quickly cornered me, forcing a laced tea to my mouth: “Drink, Mom, you’re losing your mind.” Faking unconsciousness, I heard a power drill whine. “Give me the screws. Seal the lid before the cremation.” They thought I was helpless, but before dawn…

“You stubborn old fool,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You promised you wouldn’t leave me to face them alone.”

Then, Arthur opened his eyes.

My breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to tilt violently. It was not a trick of the candlelight. It was not the desperate hallucination of a grieving widow. Arthur stared directly into my eyes. His gaze was sharp, terrified, and burning with a frantic, silent urgency.

Slowly—agonizingly—his right index finger twitched against the satin lining of his suit, lifting just a millimeter to touch his bottom lip.

Silence.