“Unnecessary,” Peter snapped. Sweat shimmered on his forehead. “We’ve done everything possible. The doctor has confirmed it.”
“Let them check,” someone in the crowd urged.
“It costs nothing,” another voice chimed in. “Just check.”
What had been whispers grew into a wave. Heads nodded, and eyes narrowed at Peter. The guards exchanged uncertain glances. Dr. Mason cleared his throat, trying to regain composure.
“This is absurd,” he said with a strained smile. “Grief makes strangers say nonsense. I examined her already.”
Micah turned to him, voice calm but resolute. “Dr. Keating, she gave you a hospital. She bought you a car. She trusted you.”
Something flickered in Dr. Mason’s eyes. He glanced at Peter. Peter subtly shook his head.
At that moment, Micah set his tool kit on the grass, knelt beside the casket, and did something simple. He removed his jacket and folded it into a makeshift pillow.
“Please,” he said to the pastor, to anyone brave enough. “Help me lift her just a little. She needs air. Then open her mouth. One drop is all it takes.”
Silence. A silence so heavy, it pressed against the chest.
An elderly woman stepped forward. Her hair was neatly styled, her eyes brimming with tears. “I am Samantha’s aunt,” she said. “If there is even one small thing we can do, we will do it.”
The spell over the crowd shattered. Two women moved instantly. A young man in a black suit slipped a hand beneath Samantha’s shoulder. The grave workers stepped back, giving space. Together, carefully, they lifted Samantha just enough for Micah to slide the folded jacket beneath her neck.
Up close, Samantha looked merely asleep. Her eyelashes cast long shadows across her cheeks. The white cotton plug in her nostril stood out starkly against her pale skin.
“Please remove the cotton,” Micah said softly.
Aunt Helen nodded. With trembling but determined fingers, she pulled the cotton free. The air seemed to shift again. Micah reached into his pocket and produced a small brown vial. It looked old, as if it had traveled many roads. He held it up for all to see.
“The antidote,” he said. “Her body was slowed by something toxic. This will bring her back.”
Peter lunged, but two mourners stepped between him and Micah.
“Let him try,” one said. “If it doesn’t work, we bury her. But if it does… if it does, then what?”
“What?” Peter spat. “Then what?”
“Then we thank God,” Aunt Helen said, her eyes sharp as blades.
Dr. Mason’s jaw tightened. “Don’t put an unknown substance into—”
“Doctor,” Aunt Helen said, her voice low but weighty. “If you are certain she is gone, this will do nothing. Let him try.”
Every gaze was fixed on the tiny vial. The sun slipped out from behind a cloud, its light falling over everything, as if an invisible hand had placed it there. It fell on the casket, on the open grave, and on the man in the worn uniform who suddenly looked like the last hope any of them had.
Micah knelt down. This time, his hands no longer trembled. They were steady, as though guided by a single purpose. He twisted the cap off the vial and dipped the glass dropper into the clear liquid inside. Then he turned to Aunt Helen.
“Please help me open her mouth.”
Aunt Helen leaned down, gently using her fingers to part the corner of Samantha’s lips. The young man in the black suit lifted her shoulders a little more so her head tilted at the right angle. Micah bent close, and almost instinctively, the entire crowd leaned with him.
Peter trembled violently. “If you do this…” he began, but his voice suddenly faltered as if strangled in his throat.
Micah raised the dropper, holding it directly above Samantha’s mouth. “One drop,” he whispered. “Come back, ma’am.”
He squeezed gently. A single clear droplet fell, landing on Samantha’s tongue. No one breathed. Not a single leaf stirred. Micah counted silently, each number heavy as stone.
One, two, three… nothing. Four, five…
A cold gust swept through the white drapes, making the entire funeral tent tremble.
Six… Micah’s hand began to shake. He lifted the dropper again, preparing to release another drop.
“Don’t you dare!” Peter screamed, lunging forward.
But Aunt Helen threw out her arm, her voice sharp as a blade. “Stay where you are.”
Micah squeezed gently. The second drop fell, and in that fragile instant—between the droplet and Samantha’s tongue, before it even touched—a tiny sound fluttered from her chest. So faint it could have been the wind, or the memory of a breath.
“Was that a cough?” someone whispered, their voice hoarse with fear.
The drop touched down. Samantha’s throat twitched. Her lips parted. Then, the air in the cemetery exploded into chaos. Screams, cheers, prayers, and choked sobs blended together. Phones tilted in every direction, recording a scene no one believed they were truly witnessing.
Samantha’s hand twitched. Then her lips parted, releasing a faint, weak cough. Small, but sharp enough to slice through the chaos like lightning across the sky.
Micah instantly leaned closer, his eyes blazing with hope. “She’s coming back,” he said, his voice trembling yet certain. “I told you, she’s alive.”
Aunt Helen clasped Samantha’s wrist, her face brightening like sunlight shattering the dark. “She’s warm. Lord, have mercy. She’s warm again!”
A woman in the crowd collapsed to her knees, crying and praying. “God is great. God is truly great.”
But Peter felt nothing. His face contorted with rage. And when Samantha’s body moved once more, his hand shot into his coat pocket. A small metallic object glinted in the sunlight.
Micah froze. Is that a blade? A syringe? Or something even worse?..
