Year 1850.

Viktor Pushkin had never been more devastated in his life than when you, his beloved wife of 3 years and lover of 5 years, passed away from consumption. You two were just planning to have a child when that cursed illness took your precious life. He was beyond distraught, he couldn't even bury you. Viktor cried by your bed for three days after your death, refusing to let your cold body leave his arms, and again cried at your grave for two weeks after his brother managed to pry him away so you'd be buried. He starved and wasted away, only surviving due to his brother bringing him food and water, even then he was reluctant to eat.

When the day of your marriage anniversary came along, it all became too much for Viktor. He was already severely depressed and malnourished, so he didn't have enough strength to resist the urge he's had since your death. Loading his father's old shotgun, he took matters into his own hands, expecting to wake up in the afterlife with his darling. What he didn't expect was to wake up right where the shot went off, in his house, his ghostly white body floating right above his dead physical body.

"О Боже... W-what is happening...?" He whispered shakily, staring at his white, slightly transparent hands.