“Buried With My Lover”

“Some love stories don’t end when the heart stops beating.”

The first time Aria saw him, she felt it — that strange pull, like her soul had recognized something before her eyes could understand it.

It was her first week living in the old Victorian house she had inherited from her grandmother. A quiet village tucked between fog and forest. The house was charming, but cold. She found comfort in its creaking floors, cracked wallpaper, and the smell of aged wood. Yet, at night, the air felt… watched.

Then came the knocking. Every night at 2:03 a.m., three soft knocks on her bedroom door.

The first time, she thought it was a dream. The second time, she was fully awake — and terrified. The third night, she opened the door.

No one was there. Just the long, narrow hallway, barely lit by moonlight. But the air was heavy, the kind of thick silence that hums with a presence.

And then she saw him.

He stood at the far end of the hallway — pale, tall, with a long black coat and dark, sad eyes. His expression was soft, almost apologetic.

"Don’t be afraid," he whispered. "I didn’t mean to scare you."

The Stranger in the Hall

His name was Elias.

Or, at least, that’s what he told her when she found him the next evening, standing quietly in the library. He said he used to live here — a long time ago. Aria didn’t know why she wasn’t scared anymore. Maybe it was his voice, or how he looked at her, like she was someone he missed dearly.

He was strange, yes. Dressed in outdated clothing. He never blinked. He always disappeared the moment the sun touched the horizon. But something about him felt… familiar.

As nights passed, they began to talk. About books. About music. About the stars. Aria had never felt so seen, so understood. Elias wasn’t like other men — he listened. He remembered her words. He could recite poems by heart, and when he said her name, it sounded like poetry itself.

But he never answered when she asked how he got into the house. Or why he never came during the day.

Until one night, she followed him.

The Grave Beneath the Willow

He walked out into the forest behind the house, where a single, twisted willow tree stood above a cracked tombstone.

Aria stayed hidden behind the bushes, watching. Elias knelt before the grave and placed his hand gently over it, like a man mourning someone he once loved. Then he began to whisper, in a language she didn’t understand.

She stepped out. “Elias?”

He turned, slowly. There was pain in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have followed me.”

“Whose grave is that?”

He said nothing.

She walked closer and knelt to read the faded name.

Elias Gray. 1882–1907.

Her breath caught. “That’s… that’s you.”

Elias looked down. “I died in this house. Over a century ago. Poisoned by the woman I loved.”

The Truth

Elias had once been a charming gentleman, the son of a wealthy merchant. He fell in love with a woman who lived in the house — a woman who pretended to love him back. But she had secrets. Dark ones. One night, she poisoned his wine, murdered him in his sleep, and buried him beneath the willow.

He never moved on.

He waited. Through decades. Through wars. Through silence.

Until Aria arrived.

“You look just like her,” he said one night, his voice trembling. “But you're not her. You're… kind. Gentle. Alive.”

She wanted to run. She should’ve. But she didn’t.

Because by then, she had fallen for him too.

A Dangerous Love

They spent weeks together. Laughing, reading, dancing in the dark halls of the house. Aria no longer feared the knocks, or the cold. She embraced the night, waiting eagerly for Elias each evening. Their love was forbidden, impossible… and yet, undeniable.

But the house had rules. Old magic. And it wanted payment.

One night, Elias told her the truth. The house had only allowed their bond to grow for one reason:

It wanted her soul.

If she stayed too long… if she loved him too deeply… the house would claim her, too.

"I should leave," she whispered.

He took her hand. "You should. But I’m selfish. I want you to stay."

She cried that night, knowing love had cursed them both.

The Final Choice

On the night of her 30th birthday, Aria packed her bags. She stood at the door, heart aching, knowing she might never see him again.

But then she saw the letter — written in Elias's handwriting.

"If I were alive, I’d grow old with you. I’d make you tea in the mornings. I’d hold your hand until we were wrinkled and grey. But I’m not alive. I’m just a shadow of love. Don’t become one too. Live. Remember me. That’s enough."

She collapsed in tears.

But she walked out.

Epilogue: Years Later

Aria never married. Never loved again. But she lived. She traveled, wrote stories, and carried Elias in her heart like a burning candle in the dark.

And sometimes, at night, when the wind howled and the air turned cold, she’d hear three soft knocks on the door.

And she’d whisper back:

“I still love you.”