The Message That Arrived After I Died

The first condolence message arrived before sunrise.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” it said.

No name. No context.

I ignored it. People mis-send messages all the time.

Then another arrived.

“He didn’t deserve to go like that.”

And another.

“I still hear his voice.”

By the time my alarm rang, I had fourteen unread messages—all condolences. All written as if someone close to them had died.

The strange part?

They all mentioned my name.

I checked my phone number. My email. My social accounts. Everything was normal. No hacked posts. No goodbye messages. No signs of a prank.

At work, people stared.

Some whispered.

Some avoided eye contact.

My manager pulled me aside gently, like I was made of glass. “If you need time off, we understand.”

“For what?” I asked.

She blinked. “After… everything.”

A cold pressure spread through my chest. “What happened to me?”

Her face drained of color. “You don’t know?”

She showed me her phone.

A local news article.

MAN FOUND DEAD IN APARTMENT — NO SIGNS OF STRUGGLE

There was my photo.

My real photo.

Taken last year.

I laughed. Too loudly. “This is fake.”

She shook her head slowly. “I attended the memorial.”

I left before she could say anything else.

On the way home, my phone vibrated again.

A new message.

You shouldn’t be walking around yet.

My apartment door was unlocked.

That alone should have sent me running—but curiosity dragged me inside.

The air smelled wrong. Sweet. Still.

My living room looked untouched, except for one thing.

A framed photograph on the table.

It showed my funeral.

People standing around a closed casket. My parents. My friends. Even coworkers. Everyone looked exhausted. Broken.

Someone had written on the bottom of the frame in black marker:

DAY 3

My phone buzzed.

You’re late.

I backed toward the door. “This isn’t real.”

The bathroom light flicked on by itself.

A sound followed—running water.

Slow footsteps echoed inside.

I crept closer, every nerve screaming not to.

The mirror was fogged.

Words appeared as if written from the inside.

YOU DON’T REMEMBER DYING

“I’m alive,” I whispered.

The fog cleared.

My reflection stared back.

Then smiled.

“I know,” it said.

The reflection stepped back—and kept going, walking away into a bathroom that suddenly stretched impossibly deep, like a hallway pretending to be a room.

“You collapsed three nights ago,” the reflection continued calmly. “Heart stopped. No pain. Very quiet.”

I touched my chest.

My heartbeat felt distant. Faint. Like it wasn’t fully committed.

“Then why am I here?”

The reflection’s smile faded. “Because you didn’t accept it.”

The bathroom door slammed shut behind me.

The mirror cracked—not outward, but inward—splitting open like a wound.

I was pulled through.

On the other side was a waiting room.

Endless chairs. Endless doors. Endless people staring straight ahead, faces gray and tired.

A digital sign flickered above:

PROCESSING: INCOMPLETE

“You’re not the only one,” my reflection said, now standing beside me, whole and solid. “Some people refuse to stay.”

“What happens to them?”

The lights dimmed.

The people in the chairs slowly turned their heads toward me.

Their eyes were hollow.

“They rot,” the reflection said softly. “Between.”

A door creaked open.

Inside, I saw my apartment again.

But darker.

Colder.

My body lay on the floor.

Still.

Decaying.

“I don’t want that,” I said.

“You should have decided sooner,” the reflection replied.

The sign beeped.

DAY 4

My reflection began to fade.

“Wait,” I said. “If I accept it… will this stop?”

It nodded. “You’ll rest.”

“And if I don’t?”

The room filled with whispers. Nails scraping. Teeth chattering.

“You’ll keep waking up,” it said, “while your body finishes dying.”

The waiting room lights shut off one by one.

Darkness crept closer.

I woke up screaming.

Morning light filled my bedroom.

My heart raced—strong, loud, alive.

I laughed, crying with relief.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare.

Then I noticed the smell.

Sweet. Still.

My phone buzzed.

A final message.

DAY 5 — PLEASE STOP PRETENDING

From my own number.