He worked at the morgue. Alone.
Aditya wasn't always like this. He used to be a quiet boy—awkward, yes, but kind. Something changed when his mother died. He never cried. Never spoke of her again. But he often disappeared at night, wandering the hallways of the hospital where she once lay.
Now 26, he cleaned dead bodies for a living. "A peaceful job," he would say. "They don't talk back."
Until she arrived.
An accident victim. Young. Beautiful even in death. A face like someone frozen mid-scream, yet calm beneath the morgue's flickering lights. He couldn't look away. Her skin, though cold, still looked warm under yellow bulbs. Her hair smelled faintly of shampoo. Her lips were pale—but soft.
Every night, he stayed a little longer.
Talked to her.
Brushed her hair.
Called her Maya.
Until one night, he slipped a ring onto her stiff finger. "Now we're married," he whispered, heart racing. "You're mine."
And then… he kissed her.
She didn't stop him.
She didn't say no.
No one ever did.
The next morning, her body was gone.
He panicked. Checked the tags. Checked the cremation schedule.
No record. No trace. No Maya.
That night, he returned home, exhausted. Opened his closet to hang his coat.
There she was.
Not standing. Not floating.
Lying.
On the top shelf.
Staring.
And smiling.
Her jaw unhinged as her whisper crackled like rotting leaves:
"I do."
He never screamed.
He never resisted.
Because somewhere deep down…
he believed he deserved her.