I stepped forward instead of back. I don’t know whether it was guilt, fear, or the echo of my brother’s last warning, but I reached the casket and placed my hand on the lid before anyone could seal it completely. The funeral director sputtered in protest. Guests gasped. My mother whispered my name in horror.
The woman in the torn coat looked at me as if I were her last chance.
“Open it,” I said, my voice unsteady but loud enough to cut through the noise.
“This is outrageous,” one board member hissed. “It’s a disgrace,” another murmured.
My father’s expression darkened. “You’re letting hysteria control you.”
“Maybe,” I replied, “but I need to be sure.”
Reluctantly, under mounting whispers and rising panic, the attendants reversed the mechanism. The lid creaked upward slowly, revealing my brother’s face once more.
For a split second, everything appeared unchanged—pale skin, closed eyes, the illusion of peaceful rest. But then I noticed the tension in his jaw, the faint bluish tint along his lips, and the subtle tremor in his fingers as though he were fighting something invisible.
The woman leaned closer, pressing her ear near his mouth. “There,” she insisted. “Listen.”
I held my breath. At first there was nothing. Then, barely audible, a shallow inhale. It was weak, strained, but real. The sound sent a shockwave through the chapel. Someone screamed. A glass vase shattered on the marble floor. My mother collapsed against the pew. The funeral director stumbled backward, crossing himself repeatedly.
My brother’s chest rose again—slightly, but undeniably.
“Call 911!” someone shouted.
The woman grabbed my sleeve tightly. “Not the hospital they use,” she warned urgently. “If he goes back there, he won’t wake up next time.”
Her words chilled me. “Who are you?” I demanded.
“Grace Mitchell,” she replied. “I used to work in clinical research. For your company.”
The pieces began to shift into terrifying alignment. Holloway Dynamics had been testing experimental neural suppressants designed to regulate traumatic brain activity. My brother had confided in me about ethical concerns. If he had refused to move forward with certain trials, he might have become a liability.
My father stepped closer, voice controlled but edged with steel. “This is misinformation.”
My brother’s eyes fluttered open. They were unfocused at first, then they found mine.
“Nate,” he rasped weakly.
“I’m here,” I whispered, gripping his hand.
“They sedated me,” he breathed. “It wasn’t a stroke.”
The room fell silent in collective horror.
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