I Died, But He Wouldn’t Let Go / A Mystery Buried in Fog
I Died, But He Wouldn’t Let Go

I Died, But He Wouldn’t Let Go

Author: Michael Branch

A Mystery Buried in Fog

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Carter fiddled with his phone. "She was so innocent, probably never imagined there were so many cruel people in the world."

He said it so quietly I almost missed it. His fingers trembled just a little, and I’d never seen him look so lost. Maybe he was talking about me, maybe about himself. Either way, the words hung in the air, heavy as stone.

Sierra’s face froze for a moment. Then she answered a call. When she hung up, she looked uncomfortable and said she had family stuff, so she left first.

She grabbed her purse a little too quickly, her smile brittle. As she hurried out, her phone buzzed again—probably another brand deal blowing up. She glanced over her shoulder at Carter—at me, maybe. For a moment, I wondered if she could sense me, a cold shiver running down her spine. The door chimed as she disappeared into the afternoon.

Carter watched her go, lost in thought.

He didn’t move for a long time. Just stared out the window, coffee growing cold, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on the table. The city outside bustled on, oblivious to the ghosts haunting its corners.

"Hmph, she’s already gone and you’re still staring after her. Can’t bear to see her leave, huh!"

I floated into Carter’s pickup and sat in the passenger seat—my old spot. The little felt angel I made still hung from the rearview mirror, now yellowed with age. I shook it, and it made a crisp sound.

The truck smelled faintly of pine air freshener and old takeout. I ran my hand along the dashboard, remembering late-night drives, music turned up, windows down. The felt angel—crooked from too many road bumps—swung back and forth, as if waving hello. I flicked it again, and the tiny bell jingled, sharp and bright in the quiet cab.

He lit a cigarette. I waved my hand, and the lighter’s flame went out. He frowned and tried a few more times, but I kept snuffing it out.

He muttered a curse under his breath, frustration etched into every line of his face. I grinned, feeling a little wicked. Some habits die hard, I guess—like nagging your boyfriend, even from beyond the grave.

His temper started to fray. Suddenly, he turned and looked right at me, as if he could really see me.

For a split second, my heart stopped. Did he actually see me? Or was it just the weight of memories making him turn? I held my breath, waiting for him to say my name.

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