Robert looked up as the doors closed on the northbound commuter train. He gasped when he recognized a familiar face. Vivian, his wife of twelve years, stood on the platform wearing her favorite red coat. It can’t be, he thought. She disappeared eight months ago.

He pounded on a window to get her attention, but she kept moving farther away. He reached for the emergency stop cable, missed, and fell. By the time he recovered his balance, it was too late. Too late to stop the train. Too late for him to confront his wife.

Still shaking, Robert exited the train at the next stop. He looked around like a man lost in the desert. He sped toward the escalator and saw a flash of red near the top. Pushing his way up the crowded stairway to a chorus of jeers, he reached the apex just as Vivian rounded another corner and out of view.

He maneuvered the intersection at top speed, looked ahead, and realized where she was going, St. Patrick’s Presbyterian Church, where they were married. He bolted toward the front steps and saw the wind-blown hem of her coat leading him to the cemetery in back. She stood over a stone, her head bowed.

As Robert neared, he stuck out his hand and grabbed air. There was no one there.

Exhausted, he sat on a stone bench and looked down at the inscription on the grave facing him.

Robert Lewis Stevens — 1962-1994

Vivian Agustus Stevens — 1964-