She opened her eyes to silence—pure, complete, unnatural. No sirens. No heart monitor. Just the soft hum of fluorescent light above her and the faint smell of disinfectant and formaldehyde. Anna Taylor lay on a steel table, her limbs unmoving, her skin cold. Yet she was certain: she was not dead. Not truly. Not entirely. The man in the white coat—Eliot Deacon—stood above her, calm as a priest, scalpel in hand, telling her what no living person wants to hear. “You died,” he said. “You just don’t know it yet.” His voice was kind. Final. Absolute.
But Anna’s mind rebelled. She screamed, struggled, begged—but her body would not listen. Her words died in her throat. Deacon claimed he had a gift—he could speak to the newly dead, help them accept their fate. That she was caught in the liminal space between life and whatever came after. But why could she still think? Still fear? Still feel the weight of regret pressing against her ribs like a second coffin? She remembered the crash, the rain, the headlights. And yet… something didn’t fit. If she was truly dead, why did doubt ache sharper than the wounds?
Each day in the funeral home passed like a breath held too long. Deacon dressed her, combed her hair, whispered cold truths about life’s wasted chances. To him, the living were blind, sleepwalking, ungrateful. He said death was freedom, and he was only the usher. But Anna wasn’t sure if he was a guide—or a jailer. Shadows moved differently in that place. Her body responded to touch. Her dreams bled into waking moments. She wasn’t alone in her doubt—others had screamed before her, scratched walls, left behind signs of resistance. So the question twisted deeper: Was she dead, or had she been buried alive inside someone else’s certainty?
When the casket closed and the dirt began to fall, Anna knew only one truth: the line between life and death was thinner than anyone dared to believe. And the true horror wasn’t dying—it was being silenced while still screaming. Somewhere above, a boy watched her funeral with wide eyes, whispering that he had seen her blink. But no one listened. No one ever did. In a world addicted to closure, Eliot Deacon would always be right—even when he was wrong. And in the stillness beneath the soil, Anna’s soul hovered—uncertain, unseen, unfinished.
