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

Part 5: The Funeral Was Part of the Plan

I couldn’t accept what he was saying.

For an entire week, I had cried beside his photograph. I had accepted condolences from relatives. I had watched his coffin being lowered into the ground.

I had even thanked people for attending the funeral.

And now the man I had buried was sitting beside me.

“Who was in the coffin?” I asked.

Márk swallowed.

“I don’t know his name.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“The body was badly injured. The identification was handled through people who were supposed to be trustworthy.”

I felt sick.

“Did you know I would bury someone else?”

He looked ashamed.

“I knew they would tell you I was dead. I didn’t know exactly what they would do afterward.”

I slapped him.

The sound echoed through the bus.

He didn’t defend himself.

“You let me mourn you!” I cried. “You let me stand beside that grave believing I had lost my husband!”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I thought it was the only way to keep you alive.”

I turned toward the window.

For the first time, I wondered whether the man sitting beside me was truly the person I had loved for eleven years.