Chapter 1

The first night after I died, my wife, Delphine Dorsett, reheated a pot of potato soup three times. Once at 11:30 PM, and again at 12:40 AM.

A little after 1:00 AM, now tired of going back and forth, she turned the heat down to the lowest setting and muttered coldly, "If it burns, he won't eat it anyway."

Even so, she nudged the lid open a crack.

My spirit stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her quietly.

That was just how Delphine was. She always remembered my weak stomach and how easily I got the chills. She remembered that I always wanted extra lemon on my crab pasta, and that my feet were always cold when I slept.

However, she never once considered that my ‘ridiculous lies’ were actually the truth.

She texted me three times.

Delphine: [It's getting cold out.]

Delphine: [The driver is waiting at the front gate.]

The last one came ten minutes later.

Delphine: [Come home. We can finish this when you get here.]

That used to work on me every time.

In our first year of marriage, after one fight, I grabbed my pillow and went to the guest room. When I woke up in the middle of the night, Delphine was cuddling me from behind with her face pressed against my shoulder blade, sound asleep.

I squirmed. "Didn't you tell me to get lost?"

Without even opening her eyes, she tightened her arms around me again. "I told you to get lost. I never told you to actually leave."

Those few words were enough to soften me for a long time.

From then on, she never really had to back down after an argument. All she had to do was heat up a bowl of soup, leave a light on, and say something simple like "That's enough now," and I would find a way to smooth things over for our marriage on my own.

At 2:00 AM, my father-in-law, Bernard Stockwell, came downstairs. When he saw his daughter still sitting in the dining room, his expression darkened.

"He's still not back?"

"No."

He snorted. "Then leave him be. Yesterday he had the nerve to say he was dying. If you actually go looking for him now, he'll only get worse."

Delphine's brow creased slightly. "Dad, once he's back, don't say things like that again."

He stared at her. "You're still defending him?"

"He was in pain and wasn’t thinking straight, so he said things he shouldn't have. I'll handle it."

With one sentence, she protected me from her father yet convicted me of ‘lying’ at the same time.

She called me for the fourth time. No one answered. When it went to voicemail, her patience finally ran out.

"Harvey, I'll pretend I didn't hear what you said yesterday."

She paused, and her voice softened. "I'll let number 99 slide too. Just come home."

Two seconds later, she added, "Your gastric medicine is on the nightstand, and I saved some soup for you."

Out of habit, I almost answered, "Got it."

Only when my fingers passed straight through her shoulder did I remember.

I was already dead.

Delphine suddenly turned around, and my chest tightened.

However, her gaze went right past me and landed on the entryway. My slippers were still lying askew. She walked over and nudged them neatly together with the toe of her shoe, then moved the dark gray coat I had left behind to the front of the rack.

Bernard frowned. "Does he not know it's cold out?"

Delphine straightened the hanger. "He's been like this since he was a kid. He knows when he's sick and hurting, but he never thinks to dress warmly when he goes out."

Her tone even carried a hint of fond indulgence.

Suddenly, it all seemed so ridiculous.

Delphine remembered that I always forgot my coat, yet she somehow never considered I was truly in pain when I said I was dying.

The driver texted her to say he still had not seen me come back. Delphine replied with only two lines.

Delphine: [No need to look for him.]

Delphine: [He'll come back on his own.]

She was so sure. In five years, she had never truly lost me.

Just before dawn, she sent me one last message.

Delphine: [Don't risk your health just to get back at me.]

I stood behind her and looked at the words for a long time. As I lay at the bottom of the stairs yesterday, I had wanted to tell her not to bet my life on the belief that I was lying again.

In her mind, she had won that bet 98 times. That was why she did not come to see me for the ninety-ninth time.