The letter arrived on a Thursday.
Plain white envelope, no return address. Inside, a single line on crisp paper:
We regret to inform you that you have been declared deceased.
Daniel read it twice, then laughed that brittle, half-afraid laugh you make when the world throws up nonsense. He checked his pulse. Felt the thrum in his throat, the warmth in his hands. Alive. Definitely alive.
He set it aside.
But that night, his bank card stopped working. The next day, his office pass denied him entry. Emails bounced. His name vanished from company records.
At the council office, the assistant squinted at her screen. “Strange,” she murmured, frowning. “It says here… deceased.”
That night, his key didn’t fit his front door.
Through the window, he saw his wife on the sofa, laughing with a man he didn’t know. When he knocked, she didn’t turn. When he shouted, no one stirred.
His reflection in the window wavered, then disappeared into smoke.
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