I took the photo and ran out of that basement like the walls were closing in. My pulse wouldn’t slow. My breath came in sharp, shallow bursts.
The next morning, I returned to the church. The door to the basement was padlocked. When I asked the pastor about it, he just smiled tightly. “We haven’t used that space in years, Malik. Too unstable. Dangerous.”
I told him what I found. The casket. The photo. The plaque.
His face went pale. Then, calmly, he said, “Son… we never asked you to clean the basement.”
I pulled out the photo. He flinched. “Where did you get that?”
“I told you,” I said. “It was on the coffin with my name on it.”
He looked me dead in the eye. “You need to go. Now.”
That evening, I received a plain envelope under my apartment door. Inside:
A newspaper obituary draft.
My name.
My photo.
Tomorrow’s date.
The lesson?
Sometimes the places that raised you are the ones that hide you. And when the past digs your grave, the only question left is—
who’s already waiting inside?
