The air was heavy as mourners gathered at the gravesite, their silhouettes dark against the overcast sky. A wooden coffin lay before them, its once-vibrant flowers now drooping—an echo of a life lost far too soon. Ian, the cherished son of Michael and Lilly, had been gone for only a day, yet the ache in Michael's chest felt insurmountable.
Though Michael presented a facade of strength before his wife, his heart thudded wildly, struggling against the relentless tide of memories that surged around him. "This can't be real," he whispered, fists clenched at his sides, as if to contain the chaos within.
The echoes of Ian's laughter reverberated in his mind, and the image of his son's radiant smile lingered, hauntingly vivid, a mirror of his wife's own sorrowful gaze.
Ian can't be gone.
As the priest commenced the final rites, a palpable shift swept through the crowd, transforming murmurs of sorrow into a murky tide of uncertainty. "He looked so still at the hospital," a woman whispered, her voice trembling with doubt. "What if they made a mistake?"
"Let's not think like that," another voice interjected, though his gaze remained locked on the coffin, betraying an undercurrent of unease. The air thickened with apprehension, each word hanging heavily, amplifying the collective anxiety that had settled over them like a shroud.
Michael's mind spiralled with a torrent of possibilities. What if they were wrong? What if…? A flicker of hope dared to ignite within him, only to be swiftly quelled, unwilling to entertain the notion of false hopes that could shatter him further.
Just as the coffin was lifted to be lowered into its final resting place, a distinct sound sliced through the heavy air—a thump. It was faint yet undeniable, resonating within Michael like a jolt of electricity.
Another thump, louder this time, reverberated from within the wooden confines of the coffin, slicing through the thick blanket of sorrow that enveloped the mourners. Gasps rippled through the crowd, a wave of disbelief washing over them.
Michael's heart raced, each beat a deafening drum in his chest. Was it his imagination? Or was something alive beneath the earth, fighting against the darkness that threatened to consume it?
"Michael!" A familiar voice called from the back—it was David, a family friend, his face ashen and taut with anxiety. "What if he's still alive? We need to check!"
Adrenaline coursed through Michael's veins, awakening a primal instinct deep within him as desperation gnawed at his resolve like a feral creature.
The thought of racing to the grave consumed him, driven by the faintest hope that his beloved son might still cling to life. In that moment, reason blurred into an insatiable urge, propelling him forward into the unknown shadows of despair.
The priest's voice rose above the murmurs of the crowd, a stern yet wavering attempt to restore order. "This is blasphemy!" he exclaimed, eyes wide with disbelief.
The priest, skeptical yet concerned, shook his head. "Michael, it's normal for the ground to settle. We're about to lay him to rest. Perhaps it's just the earth shifting?"
Michael felt the priest's words strike him like a physical blow, reverberating in the hollow space where hope had begun to take root. The tension in his chest tightened, and he fought against the surge of panic rising within him.
The priest's insistence felt like a weight pushing him back into despair, a futile attempt to silence the growing chorus of doubt that gnawed at his sanity.
Around him, family and friends shifted uneasily, their expressions a mix of concern and confusion. Whispers of disbelief mingled with the soft rustle of fabric as they exchanged worried glances.
Lilly stepped forward, her brow furrowed in a deep frown. "We can't just dismiss this!" she urged, her voice steady yet filled with urgency. "If there's even a chance—"
However, the relatives, shrouded in the rainy night in the middle of a graveyard, exchanged fruitful glances, their minds racing with doubt. In their hearts, a gnawing suspicion took root—was it possible that both parents had slipped into a delusional state, enslaved by grief and the overwhelming weight of despair?
They watched as Lilly clutched her husband's arm, her eyes glazed with a haunting mix of hope and terror. Michael's voice, trembling yet unwavering, echoed through the sterile air, each word a plea, a desperate attempt to pull their son back from the unforgiving grasp of death. Yet to the onlookers, these moments felt like the frail threads of a dream, slipping through their fingers.
Meanwhile, inside the coffin, darkness enveloped Ian, thick and suffocating. The air was stale, and with each passing moment, his panic swelled, a tempest of fear and desperation.
He pounded against the wooden confines, his fists striking the surface with all the strength he could muster, each blow echoing the frantic heartbeat of a man teetering on the edge of hopelessness.
Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the dirt that clung to him as he cried out, "Help! Someone, please!"
With each desperate punch, he could feel the wood shudder beneath him, a thin veneer separating him from the world above—a world that felt so close yet so agonisingly far away.
The dark pressure bore down on him, suffocating and relentless, and he fought against it with every ounce of strength he had left. Every strike was a plea, a final, desperate act of defiance against the overwhelming dread that threatened to swallow him whole.
As the thud of dirt hitting the coffin once again reverberated through the air, Michael's chest tightened, but it wasn't just grief gnawing at him.
Something deeper, sharper, stirred within. His fists clenched as he watched the coffin, now resting in the freshly dug grave. Every instinct screamed at him that something was wrong. His ears—always sharper than most—picked up a faint sound beneath the noise of sobbing relatives and whispered prayers.
A thump.
He froze.
"Did you hear that?" Michael's voice trembled, his eyes wide and frantic as he glanced at the gathered crowd. No one responded. His relatives stood in somber silence, but Michael knew. He knew. He had heard it again. Another thump. Muffled, distant, but unmistakable.
"Michael," his brother said softly, stepping closer, his hand resting gently on Michael's shoulder. "You're imagining things. He's gone. You need to let him go."
"No!" Michael barked, shoving his brother's hand away. His voice cracked with a mix of desperation and anger. "I heard something. Ian's alive!" His gaze snapped back to the coffin, now partially covered with soil, and his heart raced. He could feel it—a fire burning within him, urging him to act, to do something.