My Dead Husband Sent Me A Love Letter

One year after my husband died, I finally stopped dreaming about him. At least, that was what I told myself. For twelve months, I had woken up in the middle of the night expecting to find Adrian beside me. For twelve months, I had reached across an empty bed before remembering that his side would always be cold. For twelve months, I had listened for the sound of his footsteps downstairs, the familiar click of his keys, the quiet humming he did whenever he cooked. None of it ever came. Adrian Blackwood was dead. And today, I had decided to finally accept it. I stood in front of his grave beneath a gray afternoon sky, holding a bouquet of white roses against my chest. Rain had fallen earlier, leaving the cemetery cold and damp. I stared at the black marble. ADRIAN BLACKWOOD BELOVED HUSBAND. BELOVED SON. FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS. I hated those words. Because Adrian wasn't supposed to be someone I remembered. He was supposed to be someone I grew old with. Someone whose gray hair I would tease. Someone who would complain about his knees when we were seventy. Someone who would annoy me about leaving the lights on. Someone I would wake up beside every morning until one of us took our final breath. Instead, I was twenty-seven years old and a widow. I slowly placed the roses against his grave. “I came to say goodbye,” I whispered. The wind moved through the trees. I closed my eyes. For one brief second, I could see him. Adrian standing in our kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, trying to cook dinner. His dark hair falling across his forehead. His crooked smile. The little scar above his eyebrow. The way he always looked at me as if I were the only person in the room. I opened my eyes. The memory disappeared. Only the grave remained. “I won't come back again,” I whispered. The words hurt more than I expected. But I needed to say them. Tomorrow, I would begin searching for an apartment. Tomorrow, I would pack away the last of Adrian's things. Tomorrow, I would stop living in the house we had built together. I wiped my tears and turned away. I didn't notice the black car parked across the cemetery. I didn't notice the man sitting inside it. And I definitely didn't notice that he watched me until I disappeared through the gates. By the time I reached home, it was almost seven. The house looked exactly as I had left it. That was the worst part. The same white curtains. The same wooden staircase. The same photographs hanging on the walls. And the same picture of Adrian and me from our honeymoon. I stopped in front of it. We were standing on a beach, laughing at something I couldn't remember. Adrian's arm was around my waist. I looked happy. He looked happy. It was strange how a photograph could hurt more than a grave. I quickly looked away. “It's over,” I whispered. I put my handbag on the kitchen counter and walked toward the stairs. Tomorrow. Everything would change tomorrow. I went upstairs, showered and changed into pajamas. When I returned downstairs twenty minutes later, the house was silent. I walked toward the kitchen. Then I stopped. Something was sitting on the table. An envelope. My heart began beating faster. I hadn't left anything there. Slowly, I approached it. There was no stamp. No address. No explanation. Only one word written across the front. Emma. I froze. I knew that handwriting. No. That was impossible. I picked up the envelope. My fingers began trembling. I had seen that handwriting hundreds of times. Birthday cards. Shopping lists. Notes beside my coffee. Little messages Adrian used to leave around the house. I knew every curve. Every letter. Every imperfect line. I stared at my name. “Adrian?” My voice cracked. I almost dropped the envelope. Adrian was dead. I had watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. I had stood beside his mother while she cried. I had watched people walk away from his grave. I had spent an entire year trying to convince myself that he was gone. Yet his handwriting was sitting on my kitchen table. I opened the envelope. There was one sheet of paper inside. I unfolded it. The first two words nearly stopped my heart. My love, I couldn't breathe. Adrian always called me that. Never sweetheart. Never darling. Never Emma. Always my love. My vision blurred. I wiped my eyes and continued reading. If you are reading this, something has gone terribly wrong. My fingers tightened around the paper. I know what everyone has told you. I know what you believe. They told you I died. I swallowed. Then came the sentence that made my stomach twist. And technically... they are right. “What does that mean?” I whispered the words into the empty kitchen. I continued. Emma, there are things about my death that you must never accept as truth. The police lied to you. My family lied to you. And there is one person who has been lying to you since the night I died. I stopped. Who? Who could Adrian possibly mean? I read the paragraph again. Then I saw the next sentence. Don't trust the man who came to my funeral. I stared at the words. The man who came to his funeral? Hundreds of people had attended Adrian's funeral. Business partners. Friends. Family members. People I had never met. Which man? I turned the page. There was nothing else. Then— THUD. I jumped. The sound had come from upstairs. My heart slammed against my ribs. Someone was in the house. I grabbed the kitchen knife from the counter. “Who's there?” Silence. Then another sound. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Coming from the second floor. I gripped the knife tighter. Adrian had always made fun of my bravery. “You'd run from a mouse,” he once told me. “I would not.” “You screamed when you saw a spider.” “That spider was huge.” “It was the size of your fingernail.” “It had eight legs!” He laughed. I almost smiled. Then the memory vanished. I looked toward the stairs. Another step. I began climbing. One. Two. Three. The hallway was dark. I reached the top and switched on the light. Nothing. Every door was closed. I checked the guest room. Empty. The bathroom. Empty. My bedroom. Empty. Then I reached Adrian's study. The door was slightly open. I froze. I remembered closing it that morning. I pushed it open. The room smelled like him. That familiar scent nearly knocked the breath from my lungs. His books were still arranged on the shelves. His old leather chair sat beside the desk. His watch was still inside the drawer. Everything looked untouched. Except the window. It was open. Cold air moved through the curtains. I rushed toward it. The lock was broken. Someone had forced the window open. I looked outside. Nothing. Whoever had entered was already gone. I ran downstairs. The letter was still on the table. But something else was there. A photograph. I hadn't seen it before. I picked it up. It showed Adrian standing outside a large stone building. Two men stood beside him. One was Daniel. His older brother. I knew him immediately. The other man was a stranger. Young. Dark-haired. Wearing a black coat. I had never seen him before. I turned the photograph over. Three words were written on the back. YOU KNOW HIM. My blood ran cold. “No, I don't.” I dropped the photograph. My phone suddenly rang. I nearly screamed. Unknown number. I stared at the screen. Then answered. “Hello?” Nothing. “Who is this?” Silence. Then a man's voice came through. Low. Calm. Familiar. “Emma.” My entire body froze. I knew that voice. I had heard it whisper my name in the dark. I had heard it say I love you. I had heard it promise me forever. My lips trembled. “Adrian?” Silence. Then the man whispered: “You shouldn't have opened the letter.” The call ended. I immediately called the number back. The recording said the number didn't exist. I looked at the letter. My hands were shaking. There was one final paragraph I hadn't noticed. I picked it up again. If you have reached this part, then they already know I contacted you. You have less time than I expected. There is something you need to find before they find you. My heart raced. At the bottom of the page was another sentence. Go to the place where we first said I love you. I knew immediately where that was. The abandoned greenhouse behind the Blackwood estate. Adrian and I had discovered it during our first year together. Nobody knew about that place. Not his family. Not my friends. Nobody. At least, that was what Adrian had told me. I folded the letter and held it against my chest. For the first time since Adrian's death, I wasn't crying because I missed him. I was crying because I was beginning to wonder whether I had ever truly known my husband. Then I noticed something through the kitchen window. A shadow. Someone was standing outside. Watching me. I stepped backward. The figure didn't move. I reached for my phone. The shadow suddenly disappeared. I rushed toward the window. Nothing. Only darkness. But something had been written across the glass. Four words. HE IS NOT DEAD, EMMA. My heart stopped. My phone buzzed. A new message. No number. Just a photograph. I opened it. The world seemed to stop. It was Adrian. Alive. Standing inside a place I didn't recognize. His face was older. His hair was longer. But there was no mistaking him. My husband. The man I had buried one year ago. Then I noticed something else. Someone was standing beside him. A woman. I zoomed in. My breath caught. It was me. The photograph showed Adrian standing beside a woman who looked exactly like me. Same face. Same hair. Same scar beneath my left eye. But I had never taken that photograph. I looked at the date displayed beneath it. Three days ago. My hands went numb. For twelve months, I had believed my husband was dead. For twelve months, I had mourned him. For twelve months, I had blamed myself for surviving. Now I was staring at proof that something was terribly wrong. Adrian wasn't supposed to be alive. And I wasn't supposed to be standing beside him. I looked down at the letter again. There was one final line I had somehow missed. My heart stopped when I read it. “Emma, if you see yourself beside me, run.” I couldn't move. Because beneath that sentence was another message. One that made the blood drain from my face. “The woman beside me isn't you.”