Billy could barely make sense of the emotions swirling inside him. Was it relief that the situation was about to become clear, or fear that Vivian and her friends wouldn’t be there at all? Even his thoughts felt paralyzed as he took in the crowd of mourners. He could do nothing but stare at the large gathering and laugh. A dry, humorless laugh. Too many people at his funeral. Far more than he’d ever had friends or family. Men, women, children. A sea of sorrowful faces, all huddled under umbrellas, either shielding themselves from the snow like the gay couple next to him or hiding from God’s judging gaze.

They had to be liars, all of them.

Strangers who were trying to drive another stranger mad. Him. Billy Jones.

He didn’t recognize a single face in the crowd. And to top it all off, when Billy took a closer look at the man officiating, he realized that the priest was actually a pastor. But as far as he could remember (whatever that even meant anymore) he’d been baptized Catholic, like Vivian. His mother had raised him that way, until he stopped wanting to tie his faith to an institution and eventually lost it altogether after the car accident.

When his eyes fell on the coffin, where the man who was supposedly him lay, he felt sick to his stomach. Ruediger and Patrick each held him up on one side, noticing the color drain from his face.

"Sit down. Losing someone close is always hard," the pianist said, hurrying ahead to bring Billy one of the black plastic chairs.

"I know it’s a difficult moment for you. I’m truly sorry for your loss," Patrick offered his condolences.

"I’m not Billy," he muttered, almost absentmindedly.

"What was that?"

The gentle snowstorm had quickly turned into a biting blizzard. The wind snatched up a few empty chairs, sending them tumbling noisily through the snow, carving a path right through the crowd. The mourners. The liars. The fakes. They seemed eager to get this over with, as though the cold had made it all the more unbearable. The view of the coffin was now as blurry as an old TV screen with a broken antenna, barely visible through the falling snow. But then, standing beside his own grave, Billy saw someone unmistakable.

His heart stopped for a beat, and he grabbed onto the pianist’s expensive suit, clinging to it.

She’s here, he thought.

Vivian was at his funeral.

----------------------------------------

The pastor invited Vivian to step out of the black-clad crowd and take his place to deliver a eulogy. Hope. A feeling that had deceived Billy time and time again lately. Still, he pulled himself free from the pianist’s grip and pushed through the mourners to reach his wife. He waited, desperate for her to notice him.

Whoever convinced her I’m dead, she’s about to realize they were wrong.

Her wheat-blonde hair blew across her face as she spoke, and a snowflake caught on her eyelashes, making her blink rapidly. Was it a tear, or had the melting ice smeared the makeup under her eyes?

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Billy was about to raise his hand and wave, but then their eyes met.

She looked at him for a moment.

He smiled.

She lowered her gaze back to the few pages of the eulogy in her hands.

"The famous German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe once said, ‘What years give, the moment takes away.’ Our Billy left us so suddenly, so unexpectedly, in a car accident, and the loss is hard to bear, but we must learn to find comfort in our memories of him."

Billy stared at Vivian. His breath puffed anxiously in the cold air, his heart raced. Snow swirled around his trembling face, his lips twitching, and he swallowed uncontrollably.

Vivian, no, this can’t be happening. I’m right here.

"He was a wonderful husband, never one to talk much about himself. If he were here today, I’m sure he’d be uncomfortable with so many friends gathered just for him, even though deep down, it would have touched him greatly." She tilted her head toward the sky. "If you’re looking down from up there, Billy, don’t forget how much we all owe you. We owe you something far more valuable than money could ever repay: the time we got to spend with you. Those wonderful moments, and the beautiful memories we now carry with us."

Vivian sobbed.

There was no doubt. These were real tears streaming down her face.

Not melting snow.

Real tears!

She dabbed her eyes with a tissue, trying to wipe away the grief.

Billy wiped his own tears of desperation with the back of his hand.

"We’ve done our best to make your grave as beautiful as we could, and we hope you’ll accept it as a small token of our gratitude for everything you gave us." She gestured toward the freshly dug grave, adorned with flowers. Green ivy balls in ceramic pots decorated the four corners of the plot, while the longer sides were lined with orchids and cypress trees, their blossoms turned toward the sky, covered in a glittering frost. The oak coffin lid was dusted with snow on the windward side, resting on the rich, chocolate-brown casket with acrylic handles.

Billy shook his head. This was exactly the kind of extravagant funeral he’d never wanted. A simple urn, without all the fuss—that’s all he would have asked for. Vivian knew that, didn’t she?

"My husband, Billy Jones, wasn’t just a wonderful person; he was important to all of us. It was Horace Mann who once said that we should be ashamed to die until we’ve won a victory for humanity. As a worker in the Thandros Corporation’s zero-emissions factory, he carried a huge responsibility and contributed greatly to saving humanity. But most of all, he saved me, by bringing joy and love into my life every single day."

Vivian paused her speech. In that moment, Billy felt an overwhelming sense of isolation, like he was drifting alone on the last ice floe in the Arctic waters of Greenland, slowly but surely sinking into the freezing sea of truth.

Billy Jones is dead.

I don’t exist.

Billy gasped, as though he’d just finished a long sprint. His whole body began to tremble, not from the cold, but from fear. Panic gripped his chest, making it hard to breathe as his heart pounded faster and faster.

In a frantic, desperate motion, he ripped off his hood and shouted, "I’m right here! I’m not dead, damn it! Didn’t you recognize me through the snowstorm, Vivian?"

A heavy silence fell, and all Billy could hear was the rush of blood in his ears. No sobs, no whispers from the mourners. Just the shocked stares that screamed into the quiet.

Vivian clapped her hand over her mouth in horror.

"Who in God’s name are you?"

"Don’t you recognize me?" His voice cracked. "Don’t you know your own husband anymore?"

The mourners, stunned by the sudden break in the grieving atmosphere, looked on in shock. Their faces all held the same question: What is happening here?

Vivian spoke, her eyes glassy, "How dare you say such a thing?"

Hearing those words, Billy completely lost control.

He rushed past the stunned crowd, slipping on the snow and crashing to the ground, face-first.

He scrambled to his feet and kept running, only stopping when he reached the dark coffin where he was supposedly lying. Even though it was closed, a nauseating smell like old cheese seeped from the wood’s pores.

"I won’t let you sick freaks mess with me anymore," he said, his voice shaking. "You’re all in on this! You can’t fool me anymore! I’ll prove that this coffin is empty, because I am Billy Jones. It’s me! I’m the one!"

And with those words, he yanked the lid open.

What he saw inside was the biggest shock of his life.