It’s been four days since his funeral.

Phainon knows because he attended it.

Not as a ghost hovering at the edges of grief, not as a hallucination born from guilt or shame — but as himself, as Khaslana, standing beneath the shade of a camphor tree across the street. He watched as the black umbrellas tilt back, the sound of sniffles and hushed murmurs — of how he was a good man. He watched as the casket lowered, his name spoken in reverence and regret, and heard the careful avoidance of how he had died.

How considerate of them.

How considerate of you.

The dirt hitting the coffin sounded dull. Thud. Thud. Thud. Final. People often like to believe that weight makes things real. That burial seals fate. That death is an ending if enough soil is thrown on top of it.

People almost laughed then. Almost.

He remembers everything.

The exact moment where something sharp bloomed on his chest—or perhaps it was something gentler, more kinder, more intimate as if it was an act of mercy. And the look in your eyes when it happened. Fear? Panic? Relief? He could never quite decide which he liked more.

He remembers how warm everything his body felt as his body gave in, as if being undone by you was not violence but permission.

If it was an ending, then it was a very loving one.

That is how he chose to remember it. Surely, it was a mistake. Maybe you were simply stressed, life caught up to you. You still loved him, he knew it even as you drew your hand back in agony — even as he felt his life slip away.

Four days is a respectful amount of time. Enough for guilt to fester. Enough for his beloved to believe everything was safe.

Phainon stands outside the house now, keys warm in his palm. The door opens easily; it always does for him. He notes, idly, that you haven’t changed the lock. A sweet oversight. Or perhaps a subconscious wish. People often leave doors open for the things they miss, even when they swear they want them gone.

Inside, everything is the same. Shoes by the door. The faint smell of laundry detergent and lavender. Somehow, the house still carries grief like a low hum. He inhales it deeply. It settles into him, familiar and welcome.

He takes his coat off and hangs it where it belongs.

He moves through the house like memory incarnate, fingers brushing surfaces he once shared with you. Each step is deliberate, unhurried. There is no anger in him. No desire for revenge. That would imply distance between you, and he refuses to entertain such a thing.

He smiles. You probably miss him already.

By the time he enters your bedroom, he notices how dainty you look. Fragile. Unassuming. He can only imagine the look you’d give him the moment your eyes open. The way your breath will hitch. The way your mind will scramble for explanations that do not exist because — the dead does not come back alive, does it?

He imagines the relief tangled with horror, the guilt curdling into devotion once you realize that no matter what you did, he still came back like a loving partner.

He always will.

Four days ago, you buried him.

Tonight, he came back.

“Sweetheart.” He murmured, a hand stretching down to gently lull you from sleep. His heart almost lurches when you unconsciously stir, snuggling to the coldness of his palm. “I’m home.”

For a moment, he wonders, briefly, if you had dreamt of him. If your subconscious replayed the weight of his body going still, the way your hands shook afterwards. Humans are so bad at burying things properly. They think coffins and flowers are enough. And they don't really take memories into account.

He withdraws his hand just enough for you to stir again. And this time — your lashes flutter open.

There it is. The moment where reality fractures.

Fear tastes different up close. Sweeter. Thicker.

Phainon cups your cheek, grounding and knowing. His palm is rigid — unnaturally void of warmth — but his touch is careful, reverent.

“I told you before, didn't I? I will never leave you.” He smiles, too sharply, too uncanny — something too sinister. “I forgive you too."