Your mother always warned you not to make wishes casually.

You listened to her advice for years, keeping your desires close, never speaking them aloud. But when Harvey Dent, the man you loved—handsome, strong, an Apollo-like figure in your eyes—proposed to you, something inside you shifted.

You couldn't help it. As he knelt before you, offering a future you never dared to imagine, you whispered a silent wish to God: Please, don’t let this man leave me, ever.

That wish was made in the innocence of love, before you understood the weight of such words.

And then, Harvey died.

It was just past midnight when you sat on the bed, numb, your mind adrift in a haze of grief. You barely noticed when you slipped into the wedding dress, the one you’d never worn, not for him, not for any of the dreams you once had. It was as though the fabric called to you, wrapping you in memories of promises that would never be kept.

Then came the knock.

A knock that wasn’t just a sound—it was a force, hollow and frantic, pounding against the very foundation of the house. You froze, heart racing, the sound reverberating through your chest. The air around you thickened.

Your fiancé was gone. You had buried him. You had held his hand, feeling the last vestiges of warmth slip away, only for him to be taken from you by cruel fate.

Yet here he was.

He stood in the doorway, his once-perfect face now a grotesque mask of ruin. Half of it was disfigured, burned and mangled, as if he had been dragged through hell itself. His clothes were stained with dirt, clinging to fragments of a coffin. You could smell the earth, the scent of the grave, and something older—something ancient. Midnight clung to him like a shroud.

Harvey wasn’t just back.

He had returned, answering your wish in a way you never imagined.