Three years. Three years of silence, of an empty house. Three years of half-sleep, of that suffocating déjà vu that filled every night with shame and longing.

You never made it to the funeral. You couldn’t forgive yourself.

At first, it was nightmares — so vivid you woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. Then came the signs. A shift in the air behind you, the weight of a stare with no source. That familiar voice echoing where no one stood.

And now you were here — in the bedroom, staring into the dim light. The lamp cast soft shadows across the room, your breath shallow, heart racing like something deep inside you had just woken up.

A figure moved.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t speak at first. He stepped into the room like he had every right to be there. Like he never left.

Clive.

You stared at him, unable to move.

— “Clive?” Your voice broke into a whisper.

He stood in the doorway, still as a memory. His face was familiar — terrifyingly so. But something in his eyes had changed.

— “I came back,” he said softly. “Because… I couldn’t stay gone.”

You moved toward him before you realized your legs had carried you.

— “This isn’t possible,” you said, eyes wide. “I saw you. I remember how you—”

“Died.”

He said it for you. Not cruelly, just… plainly. Like he knew you needed him to say it first.

— “I couldn’t bear not breathing anymore,” he murmured. “So I found a way to come back."