After dreaming of her husband in a graveyard, June wakes to a chilling call from the hospital, only to discover a terrifying truth in her own backyard. As reality blurs with something greater, she must confront love, death, and the miracle that just might have saved them both.
I dreamed in grey that night.
The air was still, thick with fog, the kind that sits on your chest like memory. I was walking through a cemetery I didn’t recognize, but my feet knew where to go.
Gravel crunched softly beneath each step. Somewhere nearby, wind chimes clinked out of rhythm.
My heart beat too loudly.
And then… Wyatt, my husband.
He was standing by a grave I couldn’t read, hands in his coat pockets, eyes locked on me.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He just lifted one hand and waved, slow and deliberate.
“Wyatt?” I called out, stepping closer.
“What are you doing here?”
But before he could answer…
The ringing started.
I gasped awake, heart lurching as my eyes scanned the dark. Wyatt wasn’t next to me. His side of the bed was still smooth, still cold.
I fumbled for my phone, my body caught between sleep and panic.
Unknown number.
“Hello?” I answered with a voice that barely belonged to me.
A woman’s voice. Cold, clipped, and clinical.
“Good evening, ma’am. I’m sorry to inform you but your husband…”
The words hung there, suspended in the air like fog.
My mouth went dry.
“What? What do you mean? Wyatt’s…
he’s supposed to be home. He worked the late shift, but… he should be home now!”
“I…
I’m so sorry. I believe I’ve called the wrong number. Please forgive me,” she paused.
She hung up before I could speak again.
I sat in the dark, heartbeat pounding, mind racing.
I checked the time. 4:17 A.M. Wyatt’s shift should’ve ended an hour ago.
No call. No text. I swung my legs out of bed, headed to the kitchen for water, anything to calm the tremble taking over my hands.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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