Took You Long Enough
Five years after I died, Delia—my wife, a doctor—tried to dump her first love's new mess on me again.
She stormed into my old place, waving some fake agreement with my name on it, but all she found was dust.
Panicking, she ran downstairs and cornered the shop owner.
"William?" he said. "He's been dead five years. Heard the family of that malpractice case found him. Stabbed him up bad."
Delia laughed it off, like the guy was making it up.
"So what if he got suspended? He's still sulking over that?" She rolled her eyes. "Tell him this—he's got three days. If he doesn't show, I'm cutting off his sister's cancer treatment."
She muttered something ugly, slammed the door, and left.
The shop owner just watched her go, shaking his head.
"There's no sister left," he said quietly. "She died years ago... couldn't pay for treatment."