When the man my wife had always loved pushed me off the second-floor balcony of this house, she was still on the phone with him—teasing him, calling him “baby.”

I thought I was going to die.

But death didn’t come.

Instead, I ended up half-paralyzed.

That wasn’t enough for him.

He hired a couple of thugs to finish the job—chop me up and bury the pieces out back, like yesterday’s trash.

Three years after my death, Eric—my wife’s precious Eric—ended up with kidney failure.

That’s when my wife finally remembered me.

She stormed into the old villa with a bunch of bodyguards, thinking she could drag me back to the land of the living. Of course, she had no idea I was already long gone.

They turned the whole place upside down. When they couldn’t find me, she assumed I was hiding.

“Come out!” she shouted. “If you agree to give your kidney to Eric, I’ll drop your punishment and bring you home.”

It wasn’t until she had them dig up the backyard that she finally found my bones.

——

Nadia arrived at the secluded private estate with her usual entourage of guards. Her brows were pulled so tight, it looked like they might never relax again.

The place was technically managed by her people, but this particular house—this villa in the woods—was completely off-limits unless she gave the word.

She’d turned it into my personal prison. I was the husband who’d “screwed up.”

And I’d been dead for three years.

For just as long, no one had stepped foot inside.

The stone path leading to the front door was swallowed by knee-high weeds. The once-pristine garden was now nothing but a wild mess of thorny vines and overgrown grass.

Nadia scrunched her nose in disgust as her stilettos crunched along the gravel. “This place is a dump. He couldn’t even bother to hire someone to clean it up? Lazy bastard.”

She waved a hand like she was shooing away a bad smell. “Eric would never let things fall apart like this. Total night and day.”

She pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her nose. God knows if she was actually smelling something or just too good for the air here.

“Patrick!” she shouted toward the house. “You’ve gotten too comfortable playing hermit, huh? Come out here already!”

She stood there like some highborn queen descending from her throne, acting like just being here was some kind of mercy.

But no one answered.

She called out again. Nothing.

By the third time, she was done playing nice.

With a flick of her wrist, she said flatly, “Break the door down.”

One of the guards gave a sharp nod and within seconds, there was a loud crash. The door caved in under the force of several boots. They stormed in in unison. But five minutes later, they returned—empty-handed and confused.

“He’s not inside, Ma’am,” one of them said, eyes flicking down nervously.

Nadia’s brows knit tighter, like storm clouds about to burst. She didn’t buy it for a second.

She marched inside herself, checked every room, every closet, every corner.

Nothing.

Frustrated, she pulled out her phone and hesitated. It had been so long since she last called me, she couldn’t even remember my number.

She stood there, frowning, scrolling. Then she spotted it—my number, saved under “Deadweight.”

She hit call.

From where I floated nearby—watching—I couldn’t help but let out a dry, bitter laugh. She hated me so much she keep my number under that name.

It all started three years ago. Back when Eric Collins—the man she loved—fell down the stairs. Nadia didn’t even hesitate. She accused me on the spot, said I’d pushed him on purpose.

Called me heartless. As punishment, she banished me to a remote villa hidden deep in the mountains. That punishment lasted three years. And in all that time, Nadia never once remembered I even existed.

The call didn’t even ring. It cut off the moment she pressed dial. Of course it did. What had she expected, calling a number that belonged to someone who’d been dead for years?

“You’ve got some nerve, Patrick,” she muttered under her breath. “Think I won’t find you? Fine. Keep hiding. Let’s see how long you can keep it up.”

A hoarse laugh echoed from the corner of the room.

Nadia turned sharply.

There, half-buried in weeds by the far wall, slumped a man dressed in rags. His clothes were filthy and torn and a half-empty bottle dangled loosely from his hand. His eyes were glassy and unfocused—completely wasted.

“Stop yelling! The guy’s dead,” the drunk rasped. 

Then he laughed again, a sound so bitter and broken it was hard to tell if he was laughing or crying.

“Where the hell did this drunk come from?” Nadia growled, taking a step back like he might be contagious.

Before she could say more, one of her bodyguards stepped forward without needing a command and kicked the drunk square in the chest, knocking him onto his back.

“How dare you speak to our lady like that,” the guard growled. “Do you even know who this is? Mrs. Verne owns this estate. Crawl back into whatever gutter you came from before she really gets mad.”

The drunk didn’t react. He just lay there, laughing like he’d lost his mind, completely unfazed by the blow.

“So tragic,” he slurred, grinning through cracked, bleeding lips. “Pushed off that tall balcony... blood everywhere.” 

“But he wasn’t satisfied. He sent thugs, had him chopped to pieces. He was still alive when they started. Then they scattered the pieces all over the land.”

Nadia’s face twisted with disgust as she stared down at him like he was something scraped off her heel. “Who the hell are you?” she snapped. “Where’s Patrick?”

But the drunk just kept laughing, face streaked with god-knows-what—booze, tears, maybe both. His bottle had spilled all over him, soaking his dirty shirt and face.

And then, out of nowhere, he staggered forward and clung to her leg.

“He was a good man. Very kind,” the drunk cried. “He gave me food. Fed me when I had nothing. If it weren’t for him, I’d have starved to death.”

Nadia recoiled and kicked him off like he was a bug. He went flying, landing hard on a small, messy mound of dirt nearby.

The moment his back hit it, the drunk sobered up like someone flipped a switch. He scrambled up, brushing the soil with shaky hands, muttering apologies over and over.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”

Nadia frowned. “What the hell is that?”

The drunk reached for the marker like it was made of glass, gently setting it upright and patting the dirt like he was tucking someone in for the night.

“It’s his grave,” he said hoarsely.

She narrowed her eyes and sure enough, there it was—a crude little wooden plank sticking out of the dirt, tilted sideways, with crooked letters carved into it:

RIP.

Nadia rolled her eyes. “What a joke.”

She shoved the drunk aside, gave a snort of disbelief and raised her heel—then crack—snapped the little makeshift headstone in two.

“Three years and this is what he comes up with? A tragic story and a cheap little trick just to avoid me?” she scoffed. “He really thinks this pathetic performance is gonna make me feel guilty?”

She wasn’t done. She barked at one of her guards, “Get me a shovel. Flatten this damn thing.”

They did as she said—like they always did. With each strike of the shovel, the grave disappeared, just a pile of loose dirt now.

“I wanna see just how long Patrick can keep playing dead.”

The drunk looked like his soul got ripped out. “What are you doing? Please don’t,” he wailed. “Stop it! I told you—he’s dead! God, Mr. Carter was a good man. He didn’t deserve this.”

But Nadia had already turned away, completely done with him.

She paused, then said loud and clear into the wind, “Patrick. I know you’re listening.”

“You’ve got three days. Show yourself. Volunteer that damn kidney for Eric and I’ll lift your punishment. I’ll even let you come home.”

Her voice rang out, steady and unflinching, the edge in her tone daring him to test her resolve.

“But if you’d rather keep playing ghost—keep hiding like a coward—then forget about ever seeing your son again.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked off.

Before she left, she gave her guard a nod.

The man stepped forward, raised his metal baton and slammed it into the drunk’s leg with a sickening crack.

He screamed.

“Fucking beggar,” the bodyguard spat. “That’s what you get for getting in her way.”

I hovered nearby, watching the whole thing unfold.

My heart ached. I wanted to cry—but no tears came. 

Leo, my son…

It had been three years since I last saw him.

Nadia knew how much I loved him—that's why she used him to lure me out.

Of course I would have run to him. I would have done anything.

But now… I couldn’t anymore.

Once they were gone, the villa fell silent again. Still. Dead.

Only the drunk remained, curled beside the ruined grave, sobbing softly into the dirt.

He was mourning me.

Seeing him beaten and bloodied like that twisted something inside me.

Very few people even knew I had died. But the drunk—he was the only one who never left me, even after death.

He was just a homeless guy who once got caught stealing and was beaten half to death for it. I paid for his treatment and gave him a few warm meals. That was all.

After that, he saw me as his savior—refused to leave, insisted on staying near the villa to “watch over” me.

Even that day, when Eric came to the villa in secret and pushed me off the balcony, the drunk was right outside the door.

He saw me fall with his own eyes, helpless to stop it.

Falling from the fifth floor should’ve killed me instantly. But it didn’t. I survived—barely.

The drunk panicked. He ran for help like a madman. But while he was gone, Eric came back—furious that I was still alive. He hired a few thugs and they finished the job.

They dismembered me—while I was still alive.

“As long as you’re breathing, you’ll always be a threat between me and Nadia,”

“But if you're dead, I’ll be the only man in her life.”

“Don’t blame me when you reach the underworld, Patrick. Blame your luck for becoming an obstacle in my way.”

That wicked smile of his—that image still burns in my memory. Maybe my resentment ran too deep—so deep, even death couldn’t release me.

I never moved on, never reincarnated. I remained here, bound to this place.

It wasn’t like I’d done something so monstrous that I deserved this—being tortured, torn apart and left to rot like garbage.

Even when I was lying in that narrow hole, as dirt filled my eyes and flooded my lungs, I wasn’t thinking about revenge. I just wanted to see my son one last time.

I married into the Verne Family. My son took Nadia’s surname. But she never loved me—and worse, she never loved our child. Even though he was her own flesh and blood, she treated him with cold indifference.

And who’s to say what Eric might do to Leo now that I’m gone?

Three days passed. And as she promised… she came back.

Nadia showed up at the villa again, this time dragging Eric along. And beside them walked a little boy in a suit—Leo.

My little boy!

I rushed toward him without thinking, desperate to reach him—even if I couldn’t touch him anymore.

But before I could get close, Nadia clamped a hand around his neck.

“Patrick!” she screamed into the air, “This is your last chance! Your three days deadline’s up. If you don’t come out now, don’t blame me for what happens next. I’ll strangle your son with my own hands!”

She really would’ve done it. That’s how much she adored Eric. She’d rather kill her own child than let me keep hiding from her demands.

She even brought an entire medical team—ready to cut out my kidney on the spot.

“Patrick, you can survive with one kidney. But Eric’s dying. His time’s almost up.”

“I’m giving you five seconds. Five… four… three…”

Leo’s face turned purple, gasping under her grip. He struggled, but he was just a kid. No match for her strength. Still, his eyes never wavered. They looked right toward the villa.

And then—he spoke.

“Dad… don’t come out. Don’t worry about me.”

“You already gave Mom one of your kidneys. If you give another… you’ll die.”

He yelled it between breaths, tears in his eyes, but not fear.

Conviction.

Nadia’s hand froze mid-squeeze. She stared down at him, stunned. “What did you just say?”

Leo glared at her. “You’ve been fooled, Mom.”

“It wasn’t him who gave you a kidney when you were sick,” he pointed to Eric, “It was Dad.”

Her face twisted in disbelief.

“He lied to you. He wanted to take Dad’s place, so he made up that story about being your donor. He made you believe he was your savior.”

“And he didn’t fell. He threw himself down the stairs just to frame Dad. Dad didn’t push him. He was innocent!”