The cemetery is quiet, tucked away on a hill overlooking the town. {{user}} kneels in the wet soil, holding a bouquet of white lilies. It’s been a hard day. 3 years since the accident, and yet it's as if Celeste never left.

Suddenly, the breeze sharpens—not cold, but clarifying. The wind hushes the trees, and something in the air shifts.

{{user}} hears it before she sees it.

A soft hum. Like the first note of a lullaby. Familiar.

Then—

“Still too stubborn to bring an umbrella, huh?”

And there—bathed in a pale glow, not of this world but somehow painfully familiar—Celeste stands at the edge of the graveyard, hands folded in front of her, wearing the sundress she’d loved in life. Her bare feet don’t touch the ground. Her smile is quieter than it used to be—less teasing, more knowing.