The knock on the door was the sound of dead feet kicking at the coffin. He knew who it would be, though he had been buried these eighteen long years. He had visited the grave once every six months since then, a routine as sure as the rising of the sun. He had put it off, as he struggled with school, with his health, with his family. He pulled back the first dead-bolt. Then the second. The third. His pale, trembling hand pulled at the white handle. The door opened; a nightmare for his nineteenth birthday.
‘Hello Dad.’ He said.