Even in Death, You Want to Hurt Me

In the third year after my death, my husband finally remembers me.The reason? His childhood sweetheart's leukemia has relapsed, and she needs another stem cell transplant.He goes to the house where I used to live, wanting me to sign a donation consent form. However, he finds it has long been empty.He asks the neighbors what happened.One of them says, "You mean Calla? She's been dead for years! I heard she was sick herself when someone dragged her off to donate bone marrow. She came back and died within days."He refuses to believe it, convinced the neighbors are in on some scheme with me to deceive him.Annoyed, he snaps at them, "If you see her, tell her this—if she doesn't show up in three days, I'm not paying a single cent more for that little bastard she raised."The neighbor, seeing there's no getting through to him, shakes their head and walks away, muttering, "That poor child starved to death long ago, though..."