After my husband Ben’s tragic accident, my world crumbled. At just 32, I found myself alone, raising our 3-year-old son, Ethan. Ben had been my rock, and without him, I felt lost, struggling to breathe under the weight of grief.

The funeral was a haze. I could barely hold it together as I watched our son ask, “Where’s Daddy?” over and over, not understanding why he wouldn’t come back. Ben’s parents and brother were there, but none of us could fill the immense void his absence left. As the service ended, I felt like a shell of myself.

Outside the cemetery, I noticed an old man standing near the gate, his eyes fixed on me. He looked frail but intense, his gaze unsettling.

“Excuse me,” he called out softly.

I hesitated but nodded slightly.

“I know what’s coming,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“What?” I asked, confused and drained.

He held out his hand. “For a small price, I’ll tell you your future.”

A fortune-teller. Here. Now. I almost walked away, but his next words stopped me cold.

“Ben won’t rest until the truth comes out.”

I froze, heart racing. How could he know that?

“What do you mean?” I demanded. He didn’t say anything more, just motioned for me to pay. Against my better judgment, I handed him the money. His grip on my hand was unexpectedly strong, his eyes piercing into mine.

“There’s more to Ben’s death than you realize,” he whispered. “In the coming days, you will find out.”

The words chilled me to my core. Could there really be more to Ben’s accident?