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

I looked at Elena’s face. Really looked.

Was it a trick of the light? The shadows of the clouds moving overhead?

I saw a twitch.

It was microscopic. A tiny flutter of her left eyelid.

“Did you see that?” I whispered.

“See what?” Mark asked, stepping closer, his voice filled with dread. “Thomas, stop this.”

I ignored him. I ripped my glove off and placed my hand on Elena’s cheek.

It was cold. But not the icy, inanimate cold of a stone. It was the cold of a winter morning. Beneath that chill… there was something else. A faint, residual hum.

I moved my hand to her neck. I pressed my fingers into the carotid artery, pressing hard, harder than one should press on a corpse.

Silence.

Nothing.