They say grief does strange things to a person.
When I buried my husband I said my final goodbyes, wondering if I could ever truly let him go.
Four months later, I see him stepping onto a train.
It can’t be true but there he is, running a hand through his dark hair, disappearing amongst the commuters before I can reach him.
It’s the husband I buried.
No one believes me but I know my husband.
But if he is alive, who did I bury? And why would the man I loved let me believe he was dead?
Either I’m going crazy, or my whole marriage was a lie.