The nurse’s eyes flick left and right like she’s checking for shadows.
“I don’t know,” she says. “But… he got a phone call right before. He stepped out. When he came back, he was different. Rushed. Angry.”
A phone call.
Your mind starts building shapes out of dark.
You go home after three days, because the hospital forces you to.
Camila sleeps in your bed now, curled against your side like she’s guarding you the way she guarded her father.
You lie awake staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet, and you realize you’re terrified of silence now, because silence is where endings hide.
On the fourth night, your phone rings.
Unknown number.
You answer, and a man’s voice speaks, calm, cold.
“Stop asking questions,” he says.
Your blood turns to ice.
“Who is this,” you demand.
The voice chuckles softly.
“You already have your husband back,” he says. “Be grateful. Don’t dig.”
Your hand tightens around the phone.
“You tried to bury him alive,” you hiss.
Silence.
Then, quieter, sharper.
“People die every day,” the voice says. “Some are just… inconvenient.”
The call ends.
You sit there breathing hard, phone pressed to your ear, and you realize the truth is worse than a mistake.
This wasn’t negligence.
This was intention.
You look at Camila sleeping, her face soft in the dark.
You remember how she refused to leave the coffin, how she stared like she was waiting.
And a terrible thought crawls into your mind like a spider.
What if she wasn’t just waiting for a miracle.
What if she was waiting for danger.
The next day, you ask Camila gently, in the hospital cafeteria, over a cupcake she barely touches.
“Sweetheart,” you say, “why did you climb into the coffin.”
Camila licks frosting off her thumb, eyes down.
“So he wouldn’t be alone,” she says first.
Then she glances up, and her voice drops.
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