Falling for my dead wife (again)

They say grief softens with time. They lied. I don’t think they’ve ever loved like I have. True love. My first love. It’s been five years since she died. Since she left me in this cruel world, alone. Four since I stopped dreaming. Three since I moved into this mausoleum of a house on the cliffside, surrounded by fog and sea. And exactly two weeks since she arrived. “Elisa Isen,” she had introduced herself. Each time I say her name, it comes out softer than the last. Soft voice. Curious eyes. Like she’s seen me before. Too familiar. She was only meant to be here for the archive job — sorting through the mess my late wife left behind in her old studio. But I can’t make her leave. I don’t want to. She reminds me of her too much. She stands in the doorway now, turning a locket over in her hands. Her locket. But how? The one I buried with Isen. Or thought I did. “This feels… wrong,” Elisa says softly. “Like I’ve touched it before.” My breath stills. She looks up at me. “Isen,” she repeats, almost to herself. “You called me that once. You said it… differently.” "No,” I whisper, before I can stop myself. “She loved when I called her like that.” Elisa blinks. The air thickens. She tilts her head — not confused… remembering. And in that moment, I’m scared to my bones. She’s never looked at me that way before. “Who is she?” she asks. “And why does my chest hurt when you say her name?” I want to lie. I want to bury this. Tell her I’m imagining things. That grief is a trickster. That the dead stay buried. I want to tell her I’m drunk. Delusional. Tired. But then she says it. Her name. Our name. “Lucien…” she whispers. “Was I your wife?”