Kneeling To My Living Ghost Sister
Language: en
The cold April rain lashed against the headstone, soaking through my coat. I stood there, clutching a bouquet of white lilies, waiting for Samuel. He was supposed to meet me here, like he had every year for the past five. But his Maybach was already parked by the cemetery gates, the engine idling low. As I approached, I noticed the rear window was cracked open just a hair. A soft, rhythmic sound drifted out—a sound that made my blood turn to ice in my veins. Through the tinted glass, I saw them. Two silhouettes, tangled and desperate. Samuel’s voice, low and gravelly, cut through the…