Ellen stopped by the cemetery office the next morning, her voice careful, polite. “Has anyone signed in after hours? Or asked to visit plot nineteen?” The caretaker shook his head. “No cameras at the gates,” he said with a sigh. “Sometimes families sneak in through the fence. Grief does strange things.”
That night, unable to rest, she drove past the cemetery again, headlights dimmed to a glow. The road wound through mist, trees arching overhead. Then she saw a flicker between branches, faint and unsteady. A flashlight? Or just reflection? She pulled over, heart racing, but when she stepped out, only rain answered.