The funeral parlor was flooded with light. Too much light. The kind of harsh, fluorescent brightness that was meant to chase away shadows of death but only made the silence feel heavier. The funeral parlor was flooded with light. Too much light. The kind of harsh, fluorescent brightness that was meant to chase away shadows of death but only made the silence feel heavier.

The echo of Lena’s scream — "SHE’S STILL ALIVE!" — cracked through the stagnant air of the funeral parlor like thunder hitting glass.

For two agonizing seconds, nobody moved. The three mourners stood frozen in their pristine black suits, their faces drained of color, staring at the shattered white wood and the bright orange jumpsuit of the woman kneeling on the floor.

Then, another sound broke the silence.

It wasn't a hallucination. It wasn't the wind.

It was a wet, ragged gasp for air coming from deep inside the darkness of the casket.

Lena didn't wait for permission. She didn't look at the trembling faces behind her. She thrust her bare hands straight into the jagged hole she had carved with the axe, ignoring the sharp wooden splinters tearing into her palms and fingers. Blood smudged against the pristine white satin lining, but she felt no pain. She grabbed the edge of the shattered lid and pulled with every ounce of muscle she had built over six years of hard labor in a maximum-security cell.

With a sickening screech of bent hinges and snapping wood, the top of the casket tore completely open.

White silk padding fluttered into the air. Dust cleared.

And there she lay.

Maya.

Her face was gaunt, her skin a waxy, translucent gray, her lips cracked and blue. She was dressed in a dark velvet burial gown, her blonde hair neatly fanned across a lace pillow. But her chest was moving. Weakly. Shallowly. A thin clear tube was taped beneath her collarbone, running down toward a small, battery-operated medical pump hidden beneath the satin folds — feeding a slow, paralyzing sedative straight into her bloodstream.

She wasn't dead. She had been kept in a twilight state, buried alive inside a soundproof, pressurized coffin meant to be dropped six feet into the earth within two hours.

"Maya!" Lena sobbed, reaching down to grab her sister’s shoulders. "Maya, open your eyes! Look at me!"

"Get away from her!" a voice shrieked.

Aunt Margaret broke her trance. Her proper, grief-stricken mask melted into pure, unadulterated panic. She lunged forward, her manicured nails reaching for Lena's orange collar. "You're insane! She's dead! The doctors certified it! You're desecrating her body!"

Lena didn't even turn around. She drove her elbow backward with brutal, practiced precision. It connected square with Margaret’s nose. A loud CRACK echoed through the room, and Margaret dropped to her knees, clutching her bleeding face and wailing.

"Touch me again, Margaret, and I won't use my elbow next time," Lena snarled, her voice vibrating with lethal intent.

Uncle Robert stepped forward, his eyes darting frantically toward the heavy oak doors of the parlor. He reached into his suit jacket, his hand closing around the outline of a heavy silver pocket watch — no, a remote control. A signal device.

"Dr. Aris," Robert barked, turning to the third mourner — a thin, sharp-featured man with a leather medical bag who had remained silent in the corner. "Fix this! Now!"

Dr. Aris reached inside his bag, pulling out a long, pre-filled syringe. He rushed toward the casket, his eyes cold and clinical. "She’s having a post-mortem muscular spasm! Step aside, girl, or I'll call security!"

"She's breathing, you bastard!" Lena yelled.

As Dr. Aris raised the needle to plunge it into Maya’s neck, Lena grabbed the wooden axe handle from the floor. With one swift, fluid motion, she swung it upward. The heavy hickory handle slammed into Aris's wrist. The syringe flew across the room, shattering against the marble fireplace. Aris cried out, clutching his broken arm, and stumbled back into the row of velvet chairs.

Lena hooked her arms under Maya’s armpits. Gritting her teeth, she heaved her sister’s limp, frail body out of the coffin.

Maya weighed almost nothing. Six years ago, she had been a vibrant, athletic twenty-two-year-old artist with laughter that filled entire houses. Now, she felt like a bundle of hollow bones.

"I've got you," Lena whispered against Maya's ear, dropping the axe and holding her sister close to her chest on the cold floor. "I've got you, May. I'm not letting them take you again."

Maya’s eyelids fluttered. Dark, hollow eyes slowly focused on Lena’s face. Her dry lips moved, forming silent words before a faint, raspy whisper finally escaped:

"...Lena... you... came..."

"I came," Lena cried, tears washing clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks. "I'm here."

Before Robert could make another move toward his phone, the heavy double doors of the funeral parlor burst open with a violent crash.

"POLICE! DON'T MOVE!"

Half a dozen armed officers swarmed into the room, their guns drawn, tactical flashlights cutting through the bright fluorescent glare. At the front of the squad walked Detective Richard Miller — the man who had placed the handcuffs on Lena six years ago when Maya first vanished, the man who had called Lena a cold-blooded sociopath when the blood evidence was faked in her car.

Miller’s gun was trained straight at Lena’s orange jumpsuit.

"Lena Vance!" Miller shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. "Step away from the body! Put your hands on your head! You broke transport from the state holding facility!"

"Look at her, Miller!" Lena screamed, refusing to let go of her sister. She pointed a blood-stained finger at the white casket. "Look at her chest! Look at her face! You sent me to prison for six years for murder, but you never looked for a body! SHE'S ALIVE!"

Detective Miller hesitated. His eyes drifted from Lena’s frantic face down to the woman in her arms.

Maya weakly raised her left hand. Her fingers trembling, she reached out and grabbed Detective Miller's pant leg, leaving a faint smudge of dirt on his polished shoe.

Miller dropped his gun. His jaw fell open. His face turned as white as the satin inside the ruined coffin.

"My God..." Miller breathed. "Paramedics! Get the medic unit in here NOW!"

Uncle Robert backed toward the side exit, his hands shaking as he tried to open the brass handle. But Miller’s deputy caught him by the shoulder, slamming him against the wall.

"Where are you going, Mr. Vance?" the deputy grunted, snapping handcuffs around Robert’s wrists.

"This is a mistake!" Margaret sobbed from the floor, blood pouring down her silk dress. "Lena kidnapped her! Lena put her in there!"