From the coffin, a burned and horribly disfigured corpse stared at the sky with dull, glass eyes. The eyelids were nothing but charred remnants of flesh, leaving the artificial eyeballs to sit round and exposed in their sockets, the expression on the corpse’s face one of pure terror. Even the teeth were visible, the entire mouth burned away or rotted. The horrific burns barely hinted at the agony the man must have endured in his final moments...

...when he had the accident on his way to the Elysian theater and burned in his car.

Billy Jones.

"Oh God, what are you doing?" Vivian screamed in horror, collapsing in tears.

"I don’t understand!" His eyes darted helplessly through the crowd. "I can explain this! I... If I’m not Billy Jones, then why do I have his memories?"

But no one understood him, not even himself anymore.

How could he possibly convince the mourners when he couldn’t even believe it himself?

Like a man possessed, he rushed to Vivian, shaking her by the shoulders.

"What kind of creature is this?" someone shouted from the crowd.

Vivian screamed.

"Just admit that I’m your husband!" he shouted.

But Vivian couldn’t even bear to look at the strange face that was once his.

"You’re insane!" she sobbed uncontrollably. "Why are you doing this to me? Leave me alone!"

Her face was soaked with tears.

The events of the past few days came crashing down on Billy like a rain of arrows, and Vivian’s last words pierced his heart: "I don’t know you!"

She doesn't know me.

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It was over.

That was the end of him.

His last hope, the final shred of his existence, died with her denial.

He staggered back from her, overwhelmed by pain, fear, and hatred—hatred for himself. Had he really just done that? Did he really storm the funeral of a stranger, tear open the coffin, and scream at the dead man’s widow like a madman, leaving nothing but horror in everyone’s minds?

Suddenly, the world spun around him. He had to be insane. There was no doubt about it. He believed he was someone else, carrying the memories of a man who wasn’t him.

He backed away from the coffin, though he had already retreated twenty steps. People parted to let the creature pass, whispering insults under their breath. Billy only stumbled when someone stuck a leg out in front of him. He fell backward into the snow.

The landing was soft, but the person who tripped him threw himself onto Billy’s chest with all his weight.

The air rushed from Billy’s lungs in a single gasp.

"You lunatic," the man yelled, pinning Billy’s wrists to the snow so he couldn’t move. But Billy wasn’t even trying to fight back.

"You’ll stay here until the police arrive, and then they’ll throw you into a padded cell. That’s where a sick freak like you belongs."

Billy, or whoever he was, barely registered the words. He stared up at the snow-laden clouds drifting westward over New York.

He had no idea how much time had passed, but suddenly, the old undertaker stood over him, wearing an elegant trench coat and casting him a kind look. He seemed to be the only one who wasn’t judging Billy.

The old man removed his hat as he crouched down, placing his warm hand on Billy’s forehead, as if checking for a fever. He gently stroked Billy’s bald head. Even though the trench coat was too large, barely hiding the frail, thin body underneath, the old man radiated such a powerful presence that Billy almost felt like saluting him from where he lay. The man pinning him down must have felt the same because he immediately got up when the undertaker gave him a small, dismissive wave.

"Everything will be fine, my son," the undertaker said.

"But this guy is completely out of his mind!"

The undertaker glanced at the man but said nothing.

The man looked confused, as if he was reconsidering whether he had done or said something wrong.

"You’ve already seen the truth," the undertaker began, "the poor man is mentally ill. That means he needs your help, not your anger. The help of all of us. But we live in a society that prefers to step on the weak rather than help them." The old man turned his gaze to the silent, shocked crowd, then back to Billy. "You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you, my son? You’re suffering, aren’t you?"

The undertaker rummaged through the inside pocket of his trench coat until he pulled out a business card and slipped it into Billy’s jacket pocket.

"I’m the head of psychiatry and psychotherapy at the Bona Dea Hospital. Come with me. Let me show you a way to heal."