I had heard that voice sing to me when I was sick.
Heard it whisper goodnight through my childhood bedroom door.
Heard it tell me, during her final hospital stay, that everything would be all right.
“Mom?”
A woman descended the stairs.
Silver threaded her dark hair. A scar ran from her left temple toward her ear. Her face was thinner than I remembered.
But it was her.
**My mother was alive.**
I backed away so quickly that I struck the desk.
“No.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Emily.”
“No.”
“Please—”
“I buried you.”
“You buried an empty casket.”
The words were so impossible that I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because sometimes the mind refuses to accept horror and absurdity at the same time.
Claire lowered her gun slightly.
“You knew she was alive?”
Margaret looked
