Just before my husband took his last breath, he gripped my hand and whispered, “She will come for you.” Years later, strange messages, shadowy figures, and a hidden secret made me question everything I knew about him.
I sat beside my husband’s hospital bed, listening to machines beep their steady rhythm. I held his hand and tried to memorize the feel of his skin, the way his thumb rested against my wrist.
Then his fingers tightened around mine, weak but insistent. His eyes flew open, darting around the room like he was searching for something lurking in the corners.
“I’m afraid,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“What will happen to you?”
I stroked his hand soothingly. “I’ll be okay, sweetheart. Don’t worry about me.”
I frowned, confused.
“Who’s so angry?”
His grip suddenly strengthened. For a dying man, the force behind it shocked me. His eyes weren’t vague anymore.
They were sharp, terrified.
“She… she will come for you! Please…” Tears filled his eyes and spilled down his hollow cheeks.
“Be careful.”
My heart stopped. The words hung in the sterile air between us, heavy and poisonous.
But he didn’t answer. His eyes drifted shut, and his hand went slack.
Nurses rushed in, and I stumbled backward, my mind spinning, trying to make sense of what he’d said.
***
The funeral passed in a blur. I wore my grief like armor, nodding at condolences I barely heard. People kept saying how sorry they were, how Michael was in a better place now.
But all I could think about were his last words.
She will come for you.
I blinked and turned for a better look. But she was gone.
Maybe I’d imagined it. Grief does strange things to the mind, doesn’t it?
Weeks later, I sat down to go through some of Michael’s things and found his old planner.
I flipped through it absently at first, but then something caught my eye.
Once a month, Michael had scheduled a meeting with “A.”
I grabbed his phone from the drawer where I’d tucked it, unable to throw it away. The battery was dead, so I plugged it in and waited.
When it finally powered on, I scrolled through his contacts, my hands shaking.
There: a contact saved simply as “A.”
I opened the message thread, and an icy sense of dread flooded down my spine.
The last message had been sent just three days before he died.
What had he been hiding?
My finger hovered over the call button. This was crazy, wasn’t it?
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