As we left the grave, my son screamed, “Mom is cold! I felt her hand!” My sister hissed, “Stop this embarrassment, she’s gone,” trying to drag him away. I ignored her and grabbed a shovel. I dug until my hands bled. When the lid finally popped open, the crowd froze in horror. My wife’s eyes were wide open, and the desperate scratches on the inside of the lid revealed a truth that made the police arrest my sister instantly

She looked peaceful. She looked still.

She looked dead.

I felt a wave of nausea so violent I nearly vomited. I had been wrong. Noah had been wrong. We had desecrated her rest for a hallucination born of grief. I gripped the edge of the coffin, my knuckles white, ready to collapse.

“Oh, Thomas…” Karen sobbed behind me. “Oh, God, close it.”

I went to lower the lid, shame burning my face like acid.

“No!” Noah yelled. He broke free from my side and ran to the coffin. He was too short to see inside properly, so he scrambled up onto the lowering device, grabbing his mother’s arm.