Sarah backed away from the balloon. It bobbed once, twice, then drifted straight to her like it knew her name. Tied to the string was a Polaroid—the same one Mike had thrown away. Now it showed Sarah, Mike, and the four children all smiling in the dining room, taken seconds ago. In the photo, Sarah was already holding the balloon. She dropped it with a scream. The real balloon hit the floor and didn’t bounce; it stuck, as if the concrete were wet tar. From inside the little coffin came scratching—slow, patient, exactly the rhythm of someone trying to write on the lid from underneath. Five scratches. Pause. Five more. The lid lifted another inch. A child’s voice, muffled and excited: “Mommy, we saved you the best spot.”
