I spoon-fed him when he was too weak to hold a fork. I cleaned him when he couldn’t make it to the bathroom. I stayed up through endless nights, whispering reassurances while he faded away. And when he died, I thought at least I’d have the home we built together. The life we shared. Then his lawyer handed me the will. Everything—the house, the savings, even my car—went to his kids from his first marriage. The same kids who never visited. The ones who called only when they needed money. I got nothing. Not even a thank you. So I took what I did have—his ashes.
And I listed them online. Within an hour, I got a message: “I’ll pay double. But I need them today.” And that’s when I realized—someone wanted him more than I did. The buyer arrived at my door just before sunset, carrying an envelope stuffed with cash and wearing a trench coat that looked like it belonged in a noir movie. His name was Theo, according to the text exchange we’d had earlier. He was tall, wiry, with deep-set eyes that seemed to scan everything around him as if he were constantly on guard. “Do you have them?” he asked without preamble, glancing over his shoulder as though someone might be watching us. I nodded and stepped aside, letting him into the small apartment I now called home—a temporary place I’d rented after being forced out of the house I’d lived in for fifteen years. It felt wrong somehow, selling Richard’s ashes like this, but desperation has a way of twisting your moral compass. Besides, what good were they doing sitting on my shelf? They weren’t bringing him back, and they certainly weren’t helping me move forward.
Theo opened the envelope and counted out the bills onto the kitchen counter. “This is all there is,” he said, gesturing toward the urn I’d placed carefully on the table.
“Yes,” I replied, trying not to let my voice waver. “That’s… all of him.”
He picked up the urn, turning it over in his hands as if inspecting it for authenticity. Then, almost reverently, he tucked it under his arm. Before leaving, he paused by the doorway and turned back to me. “You don’t know how much this means,” he murmured, his tone softer than before. And then he was gone, disappearing into the twilight like a shadow slipping away.
It wasn’t until later that night, lying awake in bed staring at the ceiling, that I started to wonder: Why had Theo been so eager to buy Richard’s ashes? What could possibly drive someone to track down the remains of a man they barely knew—or maybe didn’t know at all—and offer double the asking price?
Curiosity gnawed at me. By morning, I decided I needed answers.