Darkness did not feel like sleep.
It pressed.
Not gently, not passively—but with weight. With intention.
At first, he thought it was a dream left unfinished, the kind that clings to the mind when waking comes too early. His thoughts drifted without shape, floating through a numb, empty space where time did not exist.
Then came the pressure on his chest.
It was faint. Distant. Almost polite.
His lungs burned.
Air—he needed air.
His eyes snapped open.
Nothing.
Not black. Not void.
Just nothing.
Panic surged, sharp and sudden, but his body did not respond. His arms refused to lift. His legs felt sealed in place. Something solid pressed against his back, his sides, his chest.
Earth.
The realization arrived slowly, like a blade sliding between his thoughts.
He was buried.
A breath tore from his throat—short, broken. Dirt shifted above him, grains falling against his face, slipping into his mouth. The smell hit next: damp soil, wood, something old and suffocating.
A coffin.
Memory rushed in fragments.
The rain.
The voices.
The stillness.
His own name spoken in past tense.
"No," he tried to say, but the word dissolved into a hoarse exhale. His heart hammered violently, each beat echoing in the confined space. His fingers twitched, brushing fabric—his suit. Funeral black.
Cold spread through his limbs as panic threatened to drown him.
He forced himself to stop.
Breathe.
Slow.
Short.
If he panicked, the air would run out. Instinct screamed at him to fight, to claw upward, to scream until his throat bled—but something deeper, older, steadier pushed back.
He was not supposed to be here.
And yet—he was.
His hand pressed weakly against the coffin lid. Wood. Solid. Real.
This wasn't a dream.
A strange calm settled over him, thin and fragile, like ice over deep water. His thoughts sharpened.
I died.
The certainty didn't bring fear. Only clarity.
Whatever had ended his life had succeeded. The funeral had happened. People had gathered, cried, prayed—or pretended to.
And still… he had awakened.
A faint sound reached him. Not from outside—but from within.
A presence.
Not a voice. Not a whisper.
An awareness that slipped into his thoughts like a shadow merging with another shadow.
Status: Returned.
Condition: Incomplete.
He froze.
The words did not echo. They did not vibrate through the coffin. They simply existed inside his mind, calm and impartial.
"What…?" His lips barely moved.
There was no answer.
Only a sensation—like being observed.
The pressure in his chest intensified. His breath shortened again. Time stretched painfully thin. He had minutes. Maybe less.
He shifted his shoulder, testing the space. The coffin creaked faintly. Dirt trickled down, brushing his cheek.
His heart skipped.
Focus.
He raised his knee with effort, pushing against the wood. Pain flared along his spine, sharp enough to steal his breath. His body felt wrong—heavy, sluggish, like it belonged to someone else.
But it moved.
That was enough.
He braced his feet, ignoring the protest of his muscles, and pushed again. Harder.
The lid groaned.
Soil collapsed inward as the wood cracked, splitting along a weak seam. Dirt poured through the opening, filling his mouth, his nose.
He coughed violently, choking, panic roaring back—but the gap widened.
Light did not flood in.
But space did.
He clawed upward, hands tearing through soil, fingers digging blindly. Dirt packed under his nails. His lungs screamed. His vision blurred.
Then—air.
Cold. Thin. Glorious.
He broke through the surface with a desperate gasp, coughing, dragging himself free of the grave like something reborn wrong. Rain soaked his hair, his suit, the earth clinging to his skin.
He collapsed beside the grave, chest heaving, body trembling.
Above him, the night sky stretched endlessly, uncaring.
He lay there for a long moment, listening to his heartbeat slowly regain rhythm.
Alive.
The word felt foreign.
He pushed himself up on shaking arms and stared at the open grave. The broken coffin lid. The disturbed earth.
No one was around.
The funeral was over.
They had all gone home.
A bitter laugh escaped him, short and broken. "Figures."
He staggered to his feet, legs unsteady, and brushed dirt from his suit. His reflection stared back at him from a puddle nearby—pale, hollow-eyed, unmistakably human.
No glowing eyes. No monstrous changes.
Just a man who should not be breathing.
As he stepped away from the graveyard, a distant sound drifted through the rain.
A radio.
He followed it instinctively, each step heavier than the last, until he reached a maintenance shed near the cemetery fence. The door was ajar. Inside, an old radio crackled with static before a voice cut through.
"…late this evening, we remember the life of—"
He stopped.
"—a promising young man whose sudden passing shocked many. Friends and family gathered earlier today to pay their final respects…"
His name followed.
Spoken calmly. Casually.
As if it were already settled history.
His hands curled into fists.
The presence stirred again.
Identity: Deceased.
Record: Closed.
A sharp pain lanced through his head, forcing him to brace against the wall. Images flashed—documents stamped FINAL, faces turning away, doors closing.
Erased.
He swallowed hard, forcing the pain down.
"So that's it," he muttered. "I'm not supposed to exist."
Silence answered him.
Then, faintly—
Existence detected.
Correction pending.
He straightened slowly.
Rain fell harder now, washing dirt from his hands, his face, but not the weight settling in his chest.
Whatever had brought him back had rules.
Limits.
And it was watching.
He turned away from the radio and stepped into the night, a dead man walking through a world that had already moved on.
Behind him, the grave lay open.
Waiting.