I Woke up in my own coffin in Chicago and nobody noticed

I woke up in my own coffin and nobody noticed I was alive. The wood was warm, sticky, like someone had spilled syrup months ago and forgotten it. The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and old lipstick.

I pushed the lid. My hands felt solid. Flesh, fingernails, veins. Still me. Still alive. Outside, the chapel hummed like it had a pulse of its own. People cried, nodded, whispered. Nobody looked at me.

I climbed out. Flowers leaned in weird angles. Candles melted upward. My suit itched in places that didn’t exist before. Someone handed me a pamphlet: Order of Service. Photos of me on vacations I’d never taken. Letters from strangers.

I waved. Nobody waved back. My cousin whispered, It’s okay, you’re finally at peace. I wanted to scream, but my voice came out as a fax machine grinding paper. The choir sang. The organ groaned sideways. Even the priest blinked in slow motion, like time had given up.

Outside, streets were empty except for shadows shaped like me, mimicking my steps. My phone buzzed: You’ve been very quiet. Don’t ruin the funeral. I blinked at the screen. The notifications kept coming: photos of me sleeping, text messages I never sent, all tagged #GoneButNotForgotten.

By the end of the day, someone left a note in my mailbox: You’ll get used to being invisible. Everyone already has. My neighbors called twice, asking why I hadn’t answered at my own funeral. I stared at the number and hung up.

Tomorrow, I’m supposed to die again. Has anyone else’s world ever forgotten they existed?