The news of my death spread quickly through our alumni circles and social feeds.

My old college professor, Mr. Carson, sent Dan a message. He said he had found a box of my things while cleaning out his office, including a few notebooks, a pen, some photographs, and other little trinkets.

He asked Dan if he wanted to come collect them as a keepsake.

Dan stared at his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen. He did not reply for a long time.

I hovered beside him. I was certain he would refuse.

In his eyes, I had not even deserved to have my ashes intact. What value could a box of old junk possibly hold?

However, to my surprise, after a moment of silence, he finally typed out a reply.

[Okay.]

On the weekend, he drove back to the university we had once attended together.

The campus was exactly as I remembered it. From the flagstone path beneath the sycamore trees to the students rushing up the library steps, everything seemed suspended in time.

Dan walked toward the administration building. His face was expressionless.

Yet his steps were slower than usual. His gaze drifted across the familiar scenery, as if searching for something.

When Mr. Carson saw him, he sighed and handed over a small cardboard box.

“These were Emma Dancy’s things. She always treasured them.”

Dan said nothing. He simply looked down and sifted through the contents.

There were a few notebooks. His initials were penned on the inside covers in my careful handwriting. There were some photographs. There was an assortment of little odds and ends.

“You know, Emma had a crush on you all the way back in college. For years, actually. When I heard you two had married, I was happy for her. I thought she’d finally gotten her wish. What a cruel twist of fate.”

Hearing that, Dan tightened his fingers subtly and crumpled the corner of one photograph.

An emotion flashed in his eyes. It was as if he had been stung by something.

However, in the end, he only offered a cold, noncommittal hum. He picked up the box, turned, and walked away.

I thought he would leave the campus right away, but he did not.

He walked to the lake, the very spot where I had gathered all my courage to confess my feelings to him.

That night, I stammered my way through it. When he remained silent for what felt like an eternity, I was sure I had ruined everything.

Then he suddenly chuckled.

“Why are you so bad at this? If you like me, just say it.”

He stood by the water, staring at the still surface, seeming lost in thought.

We used to walk hand in hand around the track, lap after lap.

He would always hold my hand. His smile was bright and unguarded.

Was he really happy back then?

Had it all been an act from the very beginning?

I lowered my head and drifted along beside his shadow. I watched as his steps slowed and eventually carried him into the cafeteria we used to frequent.

He ordered the burger he used to love. After only a couple of bites, he stopped.

He bent his head. His hands were trembling around the burger.

He was working hard to swallow as if there were a lump in his throat.

As I drifted to the seat across from him, I smiled bitterly to myself.

“What is it? Are you thinking of Evelyn? Do you wish she were the one sitting here instead?”

His tears fell then, sudden and fast. A choked sob escaped, one he could not quite stifle.

Then he suddenly stood up. He grabbed the box and hurried out.

His pace quickened, almost breaking into a jog by the time he reached his car.

After slamming the door shut, he took a sharp breath and buried his face in the steering wheel. His shoulders were trembling slightly.

I was stunned.

Was he crying? Was he crying for me?

However, in the next instant, I let out a wry smile.

How could he be crying for me?

He hated me so much that he could not even bear to keep my ashes. Why would he grieve over memories of me?

He must have been overwhelmed by the place and by the memories of moments he had shared with Evelyn.

After all, I was never the one he loved.

Ever since the day he returned from the university, I had noticed that something was off about Dan.

I was dead. He should have felt triumphant.

After all, he had hated me for years. He had finally exacted his revenge with his own hands, even going so far as to pour my ashes down the drain.

Logically, he should have felt liberated.

However, over the past few days, he had remained silent. His eyes were hollow. He was distracted even during high-level meetings at the company.

His assistant noticed as well. He cautiously said, “Mr. Fanning, you haven’t seemed yourself lately. Would you like to postpone some of the events in your schedule and take a break? I can arrange flights and a hotel.”

Dan stared at his computer screen. He was tapping his fingers on the desk absentmindedly.

He was silent for a long moment before finally saying, “Cancel my meetings for this afternoon and tomorrow.”

His assistant nodded. “Okay. Where would you like to go? I’ll make the arrangements right away.”

“Cemetery,” he said flatly.

I froze.

A cemetery? Evelyn’s grave?

However, when Evelyn left back then, no one knew where she had gone.

They never even found her body. How could there possibly be a grave?

That afternoon, I followed Dan out to a cemetery on the outskirts of the city.

He was dressed entirely in black, and there was a small paper bag in his hand.

His steps were light, as if he were afraid of disturbing something.

When he finally stopped in front of a headstone, I saw the name carved into it.

[Evelyn Wright]

My heart sank.

The grave was new. The area around it was spotless. It was clearly tended to regularly.

However, I knew there were no ashes buried beneath it. There were only a few articles of clothing she had once worn.

Dan crouched down and gently wiped the photograph on the headstone. His touch was tender, as if he were brushing a lover’s cheek.

An aching bitterness rose in my chest.

He loved her so much.

Even with nothing left of her, he had bought this plot and given her a proper resting place.

On the other hand, he had knocked over my ashes with his bare hands, leaving nothing behind.

Dan shed all pretenses. He casually pulled two bottles of high-proof liquor from the paper bag.

Then he sat down on the empty ground beside the headstone. After twisting one open, he lifted it straight to his mouth and took a hard swig.

The alcohol burned on the way down. He frowned as he swallowed.

He leaned back against the cold stone, and the confusion and sorrow in his eyes grew heavier.

“Evelyn, I’m here.”

A soft wind rustled the leaves above, like a whisper that seemed to answer him.

He kept drinking and talking to the gravestone.

His tone was conversational, yet it carried the weight of a confession.

“Are you doing alright over there? Oh, I miss you.”

Standing to the side, I felt an aching pressure in my chest.

He drank faster. As he rested against the cold headstone, he continued to mumble to himself.

His cheeks flushed. His eyes were losing focus.

In the end, he was almost slumped over the headstone. His fingers unconsciously traced the edge of the stone as he whispered, “Evelyn, I’ve gotten my revenge. So, why don’t I feel happy?”

His voice cracked. As if he had finally run out of strength, he buried his face in his arm. His shoulders were trembling as he cried.

I stared, motionless. I felt like my heart was gripped by an invisible hand.

He was in pain, yet there was nothing I could do.

The smell of alcohol clung heavily to Dan. From a distance, his assistant saw that he was barely conscious and hurried over. He said carefully, “Mr. Fanning, are you okay? Should I take you home?”

Dan did not answer. He just shook his head vaguely before letting it loll forward in a semblance of a nod.

With no other choice, the assistant hauled him to his feet and got him into the car.

He collapsed into the back seat. He was breathing heavily.

His eyes were half-closed. His lips were moving as he mumbled something under his breath.

I leaned in closer to make out what he was saying.

Then I froze.

The name he was calling…

“Emma…”

It was my name.