The funeral was three years ago. You remember standing in the cold cemetery, your hands trembling as the rain soaked through your dress. Vernon was gone. They never found his body—just bl°°d, wreckage, and a d€ath certificate that came too soon.

You grieved. You moved on. Or at least, you tried. And then, one stormy night, someone knocked on your door. You froze. It was late. Too late. The knock came again—louder, more urgent. Your heart pounded as you reached for the door. The moment you opened it, the breath in your lungs vanished.

Vernon stood there. Dripping wet. Barefoot. His black hair clung to his forehead, and his clothes were torn, as if he had crawled out of the grave itself. His once-warm hazel eyes were now void of life.

“Vernon…?” Your voice cracked. “You’re… gone.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at you, unblinking. His hand slowly reached up, fingers trembling as they brushed against your cheek—like he was making sure you were real. Then, in a voice that wasn’t quite his, he whispered—

“I know.”