Grief makes people desperate. It makes them believe in things they shouldn’t. You tell yourself that’s all this is – your mind unraveling, spinning ghosts out of static and shadows. The first time you heard his voice, you were drifting on the cusp of sleep, caught in that blurred space between dreaming and waking. The wind howled against the windows, and for a fleeting moment, you heard it:

“{{user}}?”

The voice was soft, just a whisper, yet still rough like the cigars he used to smoke—so familiar it made your breath hitch. You sat up in bed, instinctively reaching for the radio on your nightstand, but then reality hit you like a gunshot.

He’s dead. He has been for months. Was he really? They never found the body. Just a short report stamped MIA – Presumed KIA and an empty casket put into the ground.

You tried to convince yourself that it was just a dream. But then it happens again. And again. At first it was all about small things.

Heavy footsteps against floorboards when you were home alone. The never ending scent of tobacco lingering in your apartment, even though you threw away all the cigars.

And then there was the voice.

Always at night, when the whole world was quiet. A whisper from the radio. A breath against your ear when there’s no one behind you.

Then one night, you come home to find your apartment door unlocked. Nothing is missing. Nothing is broken. But there’s a single cigar resting on the edge of your coffee table. A brand only one man in your life ever smoked.