Rebirth Into My Second Chance

The car screeched to a halt, jerking Claude from his tipsy slumber against my shoulder. I thought he sought comfort there, but then I chastised myself for such wishful thinking. After all, I was dead. What more could I possibly hope for?

Once Claude stumbled back into our house, he clumsily went upstairs, shedding his prized suit and tie with a defeated grace. Standing before our empty bed, I could feel his hesitation. He probably loathed the idea of sleeping in a bed I had once occupied. In the past, any

bed I had slept in would be discarded the next day with me on it.

I thought he would retreat to his study for the night. However, against all expectations, he slowly approached our bed. His usual cleanliness was gone. He didn't even shower before collapsing into bed.

Soon after, he sat up, rifled through his jacket for his phone, and dialed my number, the so-called "Grim Reaper" he had taunted me with in life. I had become his haunting spirit after I died, as he had wished.

"You have reached a number that is currently off."

He tried to call me, but couldn't get through. Frustrated, he threw the phone forward, which passed right through my forehead. I felt nothing.

But then, in a drunken frenzy, he picked up the phone again. This time, he called Richard.

"Richard, did you hide Claire away? Tell her not to bother returning if she doesn't want to. If she dies out there, I won't even claim her body."

ever contacted you!" Undeterred, Claude furiously typed something into his phone and tossed it onto the nightstand before collapsing back

threat veiled in concern. [My mother's birthday is the day after tomorrow. If you don't come home by then, don't bother returning. I'll proceed with the divorce legally, and you can forget about becoming my

the bed. I thought, 'I can't return, Claude. This time, you'll never be bothered by me again. Once you find out about my death, our marriage will be

compelled to stay by Claude's side,

shattered the silence of the night. In that flash of lightning, Claude's hand

he could see me. But then his hand fell through me, a stark reminder of

with a groan, his gaze tightening as he surveyed the room. He glanced at his hand as if trying to grasp

bitterly, irritable, as he stripped off

his

aristocratic beauty of his face, which I had fallen for repeatedly. My

en

several times, with

his shower, Claude emerged in only a towel, water droplets tracing down his neck to his chest. He casually returned one

Claude Hart,

was a