10/09/2025
📆 During my husband’s funeral, an unknown number lit up my phone: “I’m alive. Don’t trust the children.” I dismissed it as a heartless prank—until another message came. This time, a photo of Richard’s desk, a circle drawn around a hidden compartment: “The real will is here.”....
The church bells had just finished their solemn toll when my phone vibrated. My husband, Richard Miller, had been laid to rest that morning, his coffin lowered under a gray Seattle sky. Family and friends whispered condolences, their voices muted against the steady drizzle. I was still clutching the folded American flag given by the honor guard when I glanced at the screen.
An unknown number.
The message froze me in place: “I’m alive. Don’t trust the children.”
My heart lurched. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. It had to be a cruel prank, I told myself. Richard was d:e:ad. I had seen the lifeless bo:d:y in the hospital. The coroner’s report had been signed. And yet—those words clawed at the fragile layer of grief I was trying so hard to hold together.
Before I could even react, another buzz shook the phone. This time, an image appeared. It was Richard’s desk, the one in his study at home, a mahogany piece he had kept locked. Someone had drawn a red circle around a section beneath the top drawer.
The caption read: “The real will is in here.”
I stared at it, my palms growing damp. Richard’s death had already been wrapped in unease: sudden, officially deemed a heart attack, though he’d been healthy for a man of sixty-two. But now, with this message, the uneasy threads of suspicion wove into something darker.
Our children, Natalie and Andrew, had been acting strangely ever since Richard’s dea:th. Natalie, the eldest, pressed me to finalize the estate quickly. Andrew, usually mild-mannered, grew impatient every time I lingered over paperwork. They insisted there was only one will—the version Natalie had found in Richard’s study last week, leaving the bulk of his assets in their names, not mine.
Now, standing outside the church with raindrops streaking my black veil, I felt a shiver. Could Richard have hidden something? Had someone broken into our home to send me this picture? And—God help me—was it possible that he was still alive?
The crowd dispersed, the hum of car engines filling the air. I slipped the phone back into my purse, forcing my face into calm composure. I couldn’t tell anyone. Not yet.
Yet that night, once the house fell silent and the children slept, I would go to Richard’s desk myself. And I would find out the truth...Read more in Comment or Most relevant -> All Comments 🗨️
