It's been 10 years.

10 long, lonely years since she died.

Every month, I've been to her grave to replace her flowers and say a blessing. Everytime I visited, it was the same, untouched and grim. So how?

How is her grave dug up? How is she standing in front of me with her blank eyes and rotting body?

"Claire?" I choke out in fear. "What are you, some type of zombie!?" The wind carried her raspy voice, "I'm not a zombie or a ghost. I am not alive nor dead."

I shook with confusion and fear. "Then, what are you?"