Chapter 1: Ashes and Echoes

I've read so many stories about husbands realizing too late what they've lost—those 'chasing the wife at the crematorium' dramas everyone talks about. I never thought I'd end up the heroine in one myself. In those stories, the man only wakes up to his mistakes when it's too late, grief hitting him at the funeral home or the crematorium. I always thought that was just fiction. Turns out, sometimes life is even crueler.

It always seemed like something that happened to someone else—some tragic, poetic woman in a book club read, not me, Harper Lane from Riverbend, Massachusetts. The kind of story you roll your eyes at, then secretly devour with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, thinking, 'That would never be my life.'

Except, in my case, there was no chasing after the wife—just the cold, final reality of the crematorium. No desperate attempts to win me back. Just the end.

No dramatic airport chases, no grand gestures, no last-minute apologies. Just the cold, clinical reality of a stainless steel tray and the silence that follows. No second chances. Just ashes.

Because I really died.

No metaphor, no exaggeration—this isn’t some poetic heartbreak or a symbolic loss. I mean the real thing. Heartbeat gone. Body zipped up. The works. Now I’m just a wisp, a memory, lingering in the places I once called home.

Now, as a soul, I watch the man who let me down. Seven days after I died, the grief finally caught up with him, and he collapsed in our home—the home I can never return to—howling in despair.

He sits there, crumpled on the living room floor. Ugly crying. The kind you only see when someone’s world ends. His hands clutch his hair, rocking back and forth like a lost child. The sound echoes off the walls, filling the space where my laughter used to live.

How do I feel?

I just stand there, numb, soaking in every trace of pain on his face. I listen to his desperate sobs, all caused by my leaving.

I don’t know if I should feel pity, anger, or relief. Instead, I feel like a ghost at my own wake, watching a play I know by heart but can’t change the ending of. My heart should ache for him, but mostly, I just feel empty.

And then, in the hollow sadness in my heart, a wave of cruel satisfaction washes over me.

It comes sharp and sudden, like the sting of biting into a lemon. For once, I’m the one with the upper hand. For once, he’s the one begging, and I’m untouchable. It’s petty, but I can’t help it.

Is that what they call schadenfreude? A wild, liberating rush. Maybe it’s twisted, but I let myself feel it.

The pain almost feels exhilarating—I cover my mouth and actually laugh out loud.

My laugh rings out, echoing through the empty apartment. It’s not the sweet, tinkling laugh he used to say he liked, but something raw and jagged. For the first time, I let myself enjoy his misery. It feels like justice.

Even in death, I’m more convinced than ever: Mason Caldwell probably never loved me.

I mean, really—how could he? If love leaves you this cold, this alone, was it ever love at all? Standing here, invisible, I see the truth more clearly than I ever did when I was alive.

When the police called Mason to ask him to come to the morgue and identify my body, he thought it was just another prank—something I might have cooked up with friends. He thought it was an excuse for me to make peace after a fight.

He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath about how I was always so dramatic. He probably thought I was hiding around the corner, waiting to jump out and surprise him. The idea that I could actually be gone never crossed his mind.

Because right before I died, we fought. Of course we did. I’d seen a message from his ex-girlfriend on his phone—just a normal work conversation, nothing shady, but my insecurities and jealousy got the better of me.

The message was innocent enough—something about a deposition schedule. But seeing her name, Alexis Monroe, pop up on his screen made my stomach twist. Rationally, I knew it was nothing. But rationality has never been my strong suit when it comes to Mason.

His ex-girlfriend, the one he could never let go of—the ideal, the one who got away. He never deleted their photos from his phone, yet after all this time together, I still didn't have a single picture with him.

It stung every time I scrolled through his camera roll. Photos of Alexis at graduation, Alexis at the beach, Alexis at some law firm gala. Me? Not even a selfie in the background. Sometimes, I wondered if I was just a placeholder, a shadow in his real love story.

The night before, he had a fever of 102°F. I stayed by his side all night, caring for him. But in his feverish delirium, the name he called out was still hers.

I pressed a cold washcloth to his forehead, whispered soothing words, tried to coax him to drink water. But when he finally mumbled a name, it wasn’t mine. It was Alexis. My heart cracked, but I swallowed the pain and kept caring for him anyway.

All these little things piled up, until today, when my emotions finally blew up. It didn’t take much—just one more reminder that I’d never be enough.

It was like the pressure finally hit a breaking point, bursting through the walls I’d built. I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t hurt. The words came out sharp and ugly, the way they always do when you’ve held them in too long.

In the end, Mason just said, exhausted, "Harper, quit messing around."

His tone was flat, dismissive. He didn’t even look at me. It was like I was a stranger in my own home. I remember the way his eyes glazed over, already somewhere else, already done with the fight.

He called me by my full name, so distant. But on Messenger, he called his ex-girlfriend 'Lexi'—an intimate nickname. Why not call Alexis Monroe by her full name too? Why not give me a nickname, just once?

I used to imagine what it would feel like to be called something soft, something just for me. But with Mason, I was always 'Harper.' Never 'Harps' or 'Honey' or anything warm. That was reserved for someone else.

Mason said I was being unreasonable.

He didn’t even raise his voice. He just sighed, like he was tired of dealing with a child. The way you talk to someone you’ve already given up on. It hurt more than yelling would have.

He didn't understand that this was just the tip of the iceberg. I didn't want the argument to get worse, so I slammed the door and left.

I grabbed my purse. Keys jangling. The door slammed behind me, echoing down the hallway. I hoped, stupidly, that he’d come after me. He never did.

I never expected that would be my last time.

Funny how you never know when the last time is. You always think there will be another chance to make things right. But life isn’t a TV drama. Sometimes, the credits roll before you’re ready.

After the fight, I wanted to cool off by shopping at the mall.

Retail therapy. My go-to. When life gets too heavy. I wandered past the perfume counters and window displays, trying to convince myself that a new dress would fix everything.

But I ran into a madman.

One second, I was comparing shades of lipstick. The next, chaos erupted. Screaming, people running. It all happened so fast, I barely had time to react. My heart hammered in my chest. The smell of perfume and fear mixed in the air.

Life is unpredictable. Just like that, I was killed.

No warning, no heroic music. Just a flash of steel, a burst of pain, and then darkness. I never even got to say goodbye.

The police called Mason to identify the body.

He was annoyed, impatient. Probably thought I was pulling another stunt. His voice was clipped, irritated, like he was talking to a telemarketer.

Mason frowned, impatient, and snapped into the phone, "Harper, are you done? Can you stop being so childish?"

He never imagined, not for a second, that I was really gone. He was so sure of me, so sure I’d always come back.

After he hung up, the police called again.

"Hello, please don't hang up. We're with the Riverbend Police Department. This isn't a prank. Are you Mr. Mason Caldwell? Do you know Harper Lane? She was killed in the mall. Please come to the station to identify the body as soon as you can."

The officer’s voice was gentle but hesitant, like he hated having to make this call. There was no room for misunderstanding.

In the cramped, suffocating morgue, my body lay under a white sheet, only one arm exposed, streaked with dried blood.

The air was cold. Too cold. The lights buzzed overhead. My body looked small and fragile, nothing like the person I used to be. The only thing that seemed real was the tattoo on my wrist.

The officer said, "Please take a look. Is the deceased your girlfriend, Harper Lane?" He moved to lift the sheet from my face.