My Husband Died on Our Wedding Day… But Seven Days After His Funeral, I Heard His Voice on a Bus

Part 2: The Voice I Could Never Forget

“Excuse me, Anna.”

My fingers tightened around the edge of the seat.

Nobody had called me Anna in that exact way except Márk. It was the gentle tone he used whenever he wanted my attention without disturbing anyone around us.

I turned slowly.

The stranger was looking out of the window.

For several seconds, I tried to convince myself that grief was playing tricks on me. People could have similar voices. Memories could make ordinary things feel extraordinary.

Then I noticed his left hand.

A small, crescent-shaped scar crossed the skin near his thumb.

Márk had the same scar. He had received it when he was nineteen, after breaking a glass bottle during a summer holiday.

I remembered the story because he had told it to me countless times.

“Do I know you?” I whispered.

The man glanced at me.

“I don’t think so.”

His answer sounded almost exactly like Márk’s.

I leaned closer.

“How do you know my name?”

He frowned.

“You must have misunderstood me.”

“I haven’t told you my name.”

He looked uncomfortable and adjusted his baseball cap.

“Please don’t make a scene.”

That sentence frightened me more than anything else.

It was something Márk used to say whenever he was hiding something.