I wanted to comfort her. But when I moved, I realized my body felt weightless. The hand I tried to place on her shoulder passed right through her.
I froze, glancing around, until my gaze landed on the hospital bed.
On it lay my lifeless body.
I had died.
In this ethereal, soul-like state, I silently stayed by Lily’s side.
I watched her arrange my affairs—preparing my body, notifying my family and friends and holding vigil for me. She handled everything, step by step, with care, but the toll on her was obvious.
Within a few short days, she had visibly thinned.
Three days before my funeral, Lily sat before my urn, murmuring softly, “James, I don’t know if I should tell Sophia. Can you give me a sign?”
Of course, I couldn’t give her an answer. But deep down, I wished she wouldn’t tell Sophia.
I feared that if Sophia learned of my death, she might clap her hands in celebration.
As long as I didn’t witness it, I could still lie to myself, pretending otherwise.
Just then, a ringtone broke the silence.
I glanced at Lily’s phone.
It was a call from Sophia.
Lily didn’t take her eyes off my urn. Without looking at the screen, she reached out, picked up the phone and answered the call.