The rain fell in slow, steady drops, soaking into the earth. The cemetery was nearly empty-just a few people, the faces hidden under umbrellas. No one wanted to be here. Not even me.

I stood at the edge of the grave,my black dress sticking to my skin, heavy with rain and something deeper - grief, fear,depress maybe all.

The priests voice was distant,drowed out by the whispering wind and the murmurs behind me. Murmurs that am already used to.

"Four husbands....all dead?"

"Is it bad luck,or something else?"

"They say she's caused."

I closed my eyes. I had heard it all before. The whispers followed me from one funeral to the next, growing louder each time.

I wasn't cursed.

I wasn't possessed.

I wasn't a murderer.

I was just.... unlucky.

Or so I had said to myself and others that care to know.

The priest finished speaking, and the casket was lowered into the ground. My fourth husband,gone. Just like the other three.

THE HEAVINESS OF THE PAST.

I didn't cry. Not because I wasn't in pain, but because I had cried enough for a lifetime. My first husband, Daniel,had died in a plane crash. The second, John, drowned under circumstances no one could explain. The third, Adam,had fallen from our apartment balcony- an accident,they said.

Now, here I was, burying my fourth husband, Victor. A man who sworn to protect me from the past. A man who despite his own fears,had still chosen to love me.

And now he was dead.

"Mrs. Hart?"

I turned to see a funeral attendant waiting patiently,an umbrella in hand. I shook my head. "I'm fine."

Fine. Such a small, meaningless word. No one who had buried four husbands could possibly be fine. But what else was I supposed to say? That I am not fine? That a part of me had expected this ? that I had spent months wondering if Victor would be next?

The murmurs behind me continued, some spoken hushed tones ,others loud enough for me to hear.

"I wouldn't go near her if I were you." "Four times ? that's not just bad luck." "She is a murderer." "Maybe the police should investigate her again"

I clenched my fists .I had been investigated - thoroughly. Everytime, the conclusion was the same : no foul play .

Just a woman with an unimaginable streak of tragedy.

And yet , doubt lingered.

Doubt from the police. Doubt from the public. Doubt from myself.

I turned away from the grave, my fingers tightening around the cold metal of my wedding ring. Then,a voice stopped me.

"How does it feel to bury another husband?"

I froze.

The voice was smooth, confident- laced with something I couldn't quite name. It wasn't sympathy. It wasn't mockery. It was something in between.

I turned slowly,my gaze meeting a pair of sharp, knowing eyes. A stranger. Or maybe not.

A FACE FROM THE SHADOWS

The man stood under a large black umbrella, his posture relaxed, yet deliberate. He wasn't dressed like the others-no somber black siut, no mouring pin on his lapel . He looked like he had walked into the funeral by accident , yet the way he watched me told me otherwise.

"I'm sorry",I said my voice steadier than I felt . "Who are you?"

He smiled,but there was no warmth in it. "Someone who doesn't believe in coincidences."

A shiner ran down my spine .

I should have walked away.

I should have ignored him. But something about the way he looked at me curious, assessing- held me in place.

" Do I know you?" I asked.

" Not yet" he replied, tilting his head slightly."but I know you,Mrs Hart.

"You were at the other funerals, weren't you?" I accused.

His smile widened,as if assumed."very good.yes, I was.

My heart pounded."why?"

He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering"because I have a theory.and I think you might want to hear it."

I swallowed."A theory about what?"

He held my gaze."about why your husbands keep dying".

THE UNANSWERED QUESTION

Something inside me twisted. fear? hope? A mixture of both?

For years, I had convinced myself that these deaths were tragic, isolated incident. That life had simply been cruel to me. But deep down,a part of me had always wondered.

Could there be something more? The man reached into his coat and pulled out a small,folded piece of paper. He handed the it to me.

"Come find me when you're ready to hear the truth. "

Then, without another word,he turned and walked away, disappearing into the misty rain.

I stood there for a long moment, my fingers tightening around the paper.

I should have ignored it. I should have thrown it away.

But instead,I unfolded it. Inside, written in neat, precise handwriting, were three simple words

"It wasn't you."

My breath caught in my throat. For the first time in years, someone was telling me that I wasn't the cause of my husband's deaths.

But if it wasn't me....then who?

And more importantly, who was next?