The cemetery was utterly silent in the warm Philadelphia morning. The white drapes of the funeral tent billowed softly in the light breeze. The ceremony unfolded solemnly, guests dressed entirely in black, every face heavy with grief.
The gold-sheened casket lay right beside the open grave, and beneath it lay a layer of fresh cement that had just been poured. Inside the casket, Samantha Fairchild rested motionless. She was the powerful CEO of Vantage Tech Industries, Pennsylvania’s leading tech empire. Her eyes were closed, her pale skin wax-like.
Peter Fairchild, her husband, stood beside the casket with a neatly folded white handkerchief in his hand. Tears shimmered in his eyes. Pastor Samuel Green cleared his throat, preparing to offer the final prayer. Two workers stepped forward, ready to lower the casket into the grave.
Then, a voice tore through the air like thunder. “Stop! Don’t bury her!”
Everyone turned at once, stunned by the shout. Some people immediately raised their phones, recording the scene unfolding before them. At the back of the crowd, a man in a worn blue work uniform pushed his way through. His beard and hair were overgrown, and his face was gaunt, but his eyes were bright and unwavering. A name badge was still clipped to his chest pocket: Micah Dalton, Night Watchman.
People stepped aside as though he were a storm sweeping toward them. Micah pointed straight at Samantha. His hand trembled, but his voice did not. “She’s not dead. I’ll say it again. Don’t bury her.”
“Who is he?” someone whispered.
“Is he the groundskeeper?” another murmured.
“Security!” someone barked.
Two guards stepped forward to block Micah, but he slipped past them, continuing ahead. The wind kicked up the hem of his uniform like wings. He stopped at the edge of the carpeted platform where the casket rested and turned to face the entire crowd.
“My name is Micah Dalton,” he said, his breath unsteady. “Listen to me. This woman is still alive.”
Peter Fairchild froze, his face hardening and turning cold as stone. “Get this lunatic out of here,” Peter snapped. “Sir, you must respect the dead. Samantha is my wife. She has passed. We will bury her in peace.”
The crowd murmured, and the pastor lowered his Bible. The two workers hesitated.
Micah pointed again, his gesture firm, his voice unwavering. “She hasn’t passed. Someone gave her something. It slows the heartbeat. It cools the body. It fools the eye. She looks dead, but she isn’t. Give her the antidote, right now.”
A ripple of shock swept through the rows of mourners.
“Antidote?” someone whispered.
“What is he talking about?” another murmured.
Camera lenses tilted forward. A reporter leaned in, trying to catch every word. Peter’s face tightened with anger.
“Enough,” he said, turning to the guards. “Remove him.”
But Micah didn’t move. He lifted his chin. “Peter,” he said softly, as if he had known him for years. “You know what you did, and Dr. Mason Keating knows, too.”
The name dropped like a stone into still water. Every eye darted to the left. The family doctor, Mason Keating, stood there with his stethoscope tucked into his pocket. His lips were pressed tight. He looked at Micah the way one looks at a door that should have stayed locked forever.
“Pastor,” Peter said sharply, “continue the ceremony.”
The pastor hesitated, fingers trembling on the page. Micah took a few steps closer, slowly approaching the casket. His expression softened when he looked at Samantha.
“Ma’am,” he whispered, almost to himself, “hold on.” Then he raised his voice toward the gathering. “Check her mouth, feel her wrist, warm her chest. She’s still here. I heard their plan with my own ears. Peter talked about a quick burial. Dr. Mason signed the papers. Please, give her the antidote.”
Silence thickened. Even the white drapes seemed to be still, as though the entire cemetery was holding its breath. A woman in a purple coat stepped out from the front row. Her hand trembled.
“If there is any chance,” she said, “we should check.”…
