When I woke, he stood by our bed, his suit muddy, eyes clouded, skin sickly pale.

“I’m home,” he croaked around his decomposing tongue.

“You shouldn’t be. You’re death walking again, honey.”

“Can I stay?”

“I wish…”

Taking his icy hand, I led him from the house, towards the cemetery.

GB is a writer from Tasmania. She prefers grey areas to the clarity of light and dark.