The dark is absolute.
Not the kind you blink away.
This dark has weight.
Presses on eyelids.
On chest.
On tongue.

You open your mouth.
Taste soil.
Dry.
Crumbly.
Like forgotten bread.

Your fingers twitch.
Meet wood.
Smooth.
Polished.
Close.
Too close.
Six inches above your face.

You push.
It doesn’t give.
You push harder.
Nails scrape.
Splinters bite.

No sound reaches up.
Only down.
To you.

Air already thick.
Stale.
Like breath left too long in a jar.

You count heartbeats.
One.
Two.
Three hundred.

They slow.
Not from calm—
from surrender.

The lid creaks.
Not from your push.
From below.

Something shifts.
Soil trickles
through cracks you can’t see—
onto your cheek,
into your hair.

You swallow dust.
Cough.
No echo.
Just the wet rasp of your throat.

You remember the funeral.
Yours?
No.
Someone else’s.
You were there.
Standing.
Watching the box lower.

Now you’re inside.
The wrong one.
Or the right one.
Finally.

The wood groans again.
Closer.

Something knocks.
Soft.
Patient.
From beneath.

You freeze.

It knocks again.
Rhythm.
Like a heartbeat.
Not yours.
Slower.
Older.

You press your ear
to the floor of the coffin.
Listen.

It listens back.

And waits.
For you
to knock.
To answer.
To decide
if you want to stay.

Written By MCapture