The graveyard was silent, the air thick with the weight of things unsaid.

I didn’t know how I had gotten here. One moment, I was walking home, my mind drifting like a loose thread in the wind. The next, I was standing among the dead, rows of headstones stretching out beneath the cold glow of the moon.

But it wasn’t just names and dates carved into the stones.

Each one bore a final sentence.

I stepped forward, drawn by morbid curiosity. The first marker read:

"Tell my wife I love her."

A few feet away, another:

"This isn’t happening."

I swallowed, a chill running down my spine. Some were bitter—"I should have left sooner." Others were cryptic—"Don’t open the door."

Then, one grave caught my eye.

It was smaller than the rest, its edges worn with time. But the words, freshly carved, stood out in sharp relief beneath the moonlight:

"You’re standing on my grave."

My breath hitched. I took a step back.

The ground beneath me felt soft.

Something shifted.

And then, from below, came a whisper—

"I told you."