Rain fell lightly over the quiet cemetery at the edge of the town, where the headstones leaned like tired old men and the trees whispered secrets in the breeze.
Sophie sat cross-legged on her favorite bench beneath the weeping willow, notebook in her lap, pen in hand, trying to write the last sentence of her letter.
Dear Future Me,
I hope you're still alive.
If not… well, I hope the afterlife has coffee.
She smiled a little. Then crossed it out.
The truth was, Sophie didn't know how much time she had left. Her heart was failing. Not metaphorically — literally. Diagnosed with restrictive cardiomyopathy at seventeen, she had lived the past four years under a countdown clock. Twenty-one now, with a life expectancy of twenty-three if she was lucky.
But this story doesn't start with death. It starts with him.
The boy she met in the rain.
---
He appeared like a ghost — tall, still, standing under the same willow tree as if he'd always been there. His clothes were soaked but elegant: dark slacks, a wool coat, boots that looked too clean for a muddy cemetery. His hands were bare. No phone. No umbrella. Just eyes the color of old books — golden-brown, thoughtful, and far too steady for someone that young.
Sophie squinted. "You lost?"
The boy blinked slowly, as if remembering how to speak. "No."
"You visiting someone?" she asked, glancing at the rows of graves. "Or just here for the vibes?"
He looked at her, puzzled. "The vibes?"
Evelyn tilted her head. "You're weird. I like that."
"I'm—james," he said, finally.
She raised an eyebrow. "Just James?"
"I... haven't used a last name in a long time."
---
There was something strange about James. Not in a creepy way — more like he didn't fit into the present. His speech was formal. His eyes too old. Like he'd read a thousand love stories and lived through none of them.
And then, when she stood up to leave, something stranger happened.
She dropped her pen. It rolled toward his feet.
He bent to pick it up — and the sleeve of his coat shifted just enough for her to see it:
A tattoo on his wrist, thin and ancient-looking, of an hourglass without sand.
Time, suspended.
---
Sophie blinked. "Cool ink."
James glanced down at it and pulled his sleeve over it. "It's... a reminder."
"Of what?"
He hesitated. Then: "That some things aren't meant to last forever."
She studied him for a second. "Yeah. Like me."
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I'm dying," Sophie said casually, like it was no big deal. "Heart condition. No cure. Got maybe two years max, unless I get a miracle or something."
Jame's face didn't change. But something in him shifted — like a ripple of guilt or recognition. Like her words had pierced something long buried.
She started to walk away.
Then paused.
"Hey, James?" she called over her shoulder. "If you're gonna keep haunting this cemetery, maybe bring coffee next time. I take mine with milk."
---
That night, James stood in the rain long after she'd gone, staring at the bench where her notebook had left a faint imprint.
He hadn't spoken to anyone new in over twenty years.
Not since the last time he watched someone he loved die.
And here she was — this girl with death on her lips and stars in her smile — joking about her heart as if it were someone else's problem.
She didn't know what he was.
Not yet.
But something inside him stirred for the first time in decades.
And it terrified him.
---