Daniel sat in his dimly lit room, staring blankly at the calendar on the wall. Today marked exactly one year since Emily's disappearance—her presumed death. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his chest tightening at the memory of their last morning together.
They had argued.
A trivial fight over something so insignificant he could barely remember. She had stormed out, angry and unwilling to listen. If only he had stopped her. If only he had called her back. Maybe then—
But fate had been cruel.
Emily never came home.
Days of searching turned into weeks. Then months.
There was no body, no trace of where she had gone. And yet, after endless police investigations, rumors, and whispered accusations from neighbors, they had buried her. Not her—her belongings. Her clothes, her books, her favorite perfume, and her phone.
Daniel scoffed bitterly.
He had been the prime suspect.
Even without proof, people had believed he was guilty. He had pleaded, sworn, screamed his innocence, but suspicion clung to him like a shadow.
His fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of an unopened bottle of whiskey on his desk.
Then his phone rang.
The sharp sound shattered the silence, making his pulse spike. He glanced at the screen, expecting to see a telemarketer or a wrong number.
Instead, he froze.
The caller ID read: Emily.
Daniel's breath hitched. His vision blurred. His hands trembled as he stared at the screen, unable to believe what he was seeing.
This is impossible.
Emily was dead.
His heart pounded wildly against his ribs. Hesitation warred with panic as he slowly pressed accept and brought the phone to his ear.
A hollow, static-filled silence greeted him before a familiar voice whispered through the receiver.
"I thought you loved me, but you couldn't even remember my birthday."
Daniel's entire body went rigid.
That voice. That sentence. He remembered it.
Three years ago, Emily had said those exact words to him when he pretended to forget her birthday, planning to surprise her later that night. The same tone, the same disappointment laced with frustration.
His throat went dry.
"Em… Emily?" His voice barely came out.
Static crackled through the speaker, and then the line went dead.
Daniel dropped the phone like it had burned him.
His breathing turned ragged. This had to be a nightmare. It had to be.
Without thinking, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey, twisted off the cap, and took a long, burning gulp. But the fire in his throat did nothing to numb the terror clawing at his mind.
He needed to see for himself.
Grabbing his car keys, Daniel stumbled out of his apartment and sped to the cemetery.
---
The graveyard was eerily silent, save for the rustling leaves in the cold night breeze.
Daniel's feet crunched against the gravel path as he neared Emily's grave. His stomach churned violently when he saw her name etched into the tombstone.
Emily Carter
Beloved Wife & Daughter
Died: July, 2030
His fingers curled into fists.
Then how the hell did she just call me?
Before logic could stop him, he dropped to his knees and started digging. His fingers clawed through the damp earth, his breath ragged and shallow. His mind screamed that he was insane, but his heart refused to listen.
Minutes stretched into eternity before his hands scraped against solid wood.
The coffin.
His pulse thundered in his ears as he pried it open, his chest heaving with desperation.
Everything inside was exactly as it had been a year ago.
Her neatly folded dress. Her books. The wedding ring he had placed in there.
But her phone—the phone that had been buried with her—was missing.
A shudder wracked his body. His mind reeled, unable to process what this meant.
Then—his phone rang again.
The screen lit up with the same name: Emily.
His shaking fingers barely managed to press accept.
Static. Then, her voice.
"Daniel… help me."
His vision blurred. His knees wobbled.
Then darkness swallowed him whole.
---
Daniel awoke to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft beeping of a heart monitor.
The hospital.
His body ached as he turned his head, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights. He wasn't alone.
Two police officers stood at the foot of his bed. One of them, Detective Graves, had a grim expression as he eyed Daniel with something between pity and suspicion.
"You really have a habit of ending up in places you shouldn't be," Graves muttered.
Daniel's throat was dry. "I—I saw it," he croaked. "Her belongings… wasn't there."
The younger officer sighed, jotting something in his notebook.
"We know," Graves said. "The coffin was empty when we got there."
Daniel's stomach twisted. "Then you believe me?"
Graves' gaze was unreadable. "It doesn't mean we believe she's alive. It just means something's very wrong."
Daniel's heart pounded. "She called me. Twice."
The officers exchanged wary glances.
"I have proof," Daniel insisted, grabbing his phone. His hands shook as he opened the call log.
The entries were gone.
His breathing turned erratic as he checked the call recordings. Nothing. No record. No evidence.
It was as if the calls had never happened.
His world tilted, spiraling into an abyss of confusion and dread.
"I'm not crazy," he whispered, gripping the sheets. "I know what I heard."
Graves exhaled slowly. "We need to talk, Daniel."
Daniel's blood ran cold.
Because the way the detective looked at him wasn't just concern. It was suspicion.
And in that moment, Daniel realized—
He was once again their prime suspect.