In the weeks following the cremation, Julian Keats withdrew from the world. Nightmares plagued him — Elara’s reflection appearing behind him, the scent of smoke lingering on his skin. When he returned to the crematorium, he noticed an unexpected odor in the air — bitter, herbal, and familiar. It was the same scent as Evelyn’s tea.
Haunted by doubt, Julian demanded access to Elara’s medical files. The documents were flawless — too perfect. When he reached her doctor privately, the truth emerged. “There were… anomalies,” she admitted. Samples that might have revealed more had been destroyed at Evelyn’s request. One word shattered Julian’s denial: Digitalis — a potent heart medication that can be deadly in high doses. His wife’s heart hadn’t failed; it had been stopped.
Confronting Evelyn, Julian learned the extent of her obsession with “purity.” She confessed her belief that Elara had “tainted” the family line. Two nights later, Evelyn Keats was found dead. The official cause was another heart attack. Julian said nothing.
Months passed before the Keats estate fell silent. Locals whispered that Julian had vanished or gone mad. Then, nearly a year later, a groundskeeper unearthed a sealed wooden box beneath the crematorium. Inside lay a lock of hair — and a note written in a trembling hand: “She moved because she lived. You burned her alive.” The handwriting was Elara’s, dated three days after her cremation.
Today, the Keats property remains abandoned. Visitors claim to hear lullabies beneath the crackle of unseen flames and see a woman’s reflection through the furnace glass, her belly rising and falling as if still waiting to give birth. And somewhere between the whispers and the firelight lingers Julian’s final words before he disappeared:
“Fire doesn’t end everything. Sometimes, it gives life to what should have died.”
“The ashes never cooled. And neither did the truth.”