If I hadn’t been obsessing over my hydrangeas, I might have missed the moment a dead man stepped out of a moving truck.

That morning, I told myself I was just adjusting the soil. Just trimming edges. Not thinking about the fire that split my life into before and after.

Then I saw him.

He unfolded himself from the driver’s seat slowly, like time weighed more on him than the boxes being carried into the house. The sunlight caught his face, and for one impossible, breathless second, I believed in resurrection.

Same jawline.

Same restless lean when he walked.

Gabriel.

I turned so fast I nearly tripped over the garden hose. I locked myself inside and stood with my forehead pressed against the door, heart pounding like it had thirty years ago.

Three days, I avoided the windows. Three days of watching through slivers of curtain like I was the one hiding from the living.

On the fourth morning, he knocked.

Three slow, deliberate raps.

“Who is it?” I asked, already knowing.

“Elias,” he replied. “Your new neighbor.”

Elias.

I cracked the door. He held a basket of muffins like this was a normal suburban ritual.

Then his sleeve slipped back.

The skin on his forearm was tight, shiny in places. Grafted. And beneath it, warped by heat, was the faint outline of a tattoo I once traced with my fingertip.

An infinity symbol.

“Gabe?” I whispered.

His smile faded, replaced by something heavier.

“You weren’t supposed to recognize me, Sammie,” he said softly. “But you deserve the truth.”

We sat at my kitchen table like strangers with a shared grave between us.

“Start with the fire,” I said. “Start with why we buried you.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” he answered.

The words didn’t explode. They sank.