The gray clouds over New York were a warning, but no one wanted to believe it just yet. And then it happened: the first snow in seven winters began to fall, covering the cemetery in a blanket of innocent white. Light, delicate flakes piled softly on top of each other. If Billy had expected the sudden cold, he might have taken up the offer of that crazy old man at the train station who wanted to bet his cotton hat in a game of three-card monte. But luck wasn’t something Billy could count on right now. Fortuna had vanished from his life as quickly as it had fallen apart. He had no home, walking through a world where he was both deceiver and deceived, where no one remembered him, and where he didn’t even recognize himself. So, on this snowy Tuesday morning, he had no choice but to go to his own funeral to see if he was really dead.

  Morning mist curled over the Green-Wood Cemetery, where an eerie stillness reigned. It was strangely freeing, trudging through the untouched snow, where no other footprints had been left behind. Under ancient oaks, whose bare branches were weighed down with fresh snow, lay burial plots in a peaceful landscape. Billy passed them with a heavy heart, thinking that his story, too, would one day come to an end. He was losing faith in a happy ending, but as long as there was a chance to find answers, he had to keep fighting. If he found Vivian at the funeral, he’d also reclaim his past—the past as Billy Jones, the life he had believed was real just two days ago.

  But finding his own funeral, without knowing when or where it was happening, would be an impossible task. So, he rang the doorbell at the funeral home, a two-story house with a white facade and turquoise window frames, peeking out between two snow-covered birches that looked like cotton candy on sticks. The undertaker, who looked as old as the trees themselves, greeted Billy with a sly grin and held the large double door open. With his dull blue eyes, wrinkled skin, and white hair, he seemed like he’d just risen from the dead. The interior surprised Billy as well. It stood in stark contrast to the cheerful exterior, which didn’t really suit a cemetery anyway. The inside was like an old hunter’s cabin, with dark, poorly laid floorboards, their gaps wide enough to catch the heels of women who had a taste for stilettos. A fireplace heated the entire room, and Billy’s numb fingers slowly began to thaw, itching as the warmth returned to them.

  “What can I do for you, my son?” The old man gestured toward a worn leather armchair in front of the fire, and Billy gratefully took the seat, though he briefly wondered why the undertaker was spending so much time with him when so many other mourners were waiting at the reception.

  “Do you happen to have any headache pills?” Billy asked, holding up the half-used blister pack of X-3-19’s medication. “These things help with all kinds of pain, but apparently not a pounding head.”

  The old man smiled again, out of politeness, and took the blister pack from Billy’s hand, inspecting it from both sides.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “From…” Billy hesitated. A beauty? A colleague? A lover? In any case, from a young woman with a pure heart, whom he had bitterly disappointed with his distrust. “From X-3-19,” he said, returning the old man’s smile. “I doubt you know her. I don’t really know her either. And she doesn’t know me.”

  The old man handed the medication back to Billy without a word, using some of the last reserves of energy in his body to heave himself out of his chair with a loud groan. When he returned a short while later, he poured water from a carafe into a crystal glass and handed it to Billy along with an over-the-counter painkiller. His age-spotted hand trembled as he held the water. Billy quickly took the glass from him and thanked him.

  “Is that all, my son?”

  “No, I’m here for a funeral,” Billy replied.

  “Oh, yes? Whose?”

  Billy hesitated, clearing his throat. “A friend of mine,” he said. “His name is Billy Jones. He’s being buried today, but I don’t know where or when. I can’t get a hold of anyone who could tell me, and I haven’t been able to reach his wife.”

  “Jones?” The old man scratched a bald patch on his head, barely covered by a few thin strands of white hair. “I’m afraid it’s already underway. The service started a while ago. The ceremony should be just about over.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Great. You slept through your own funeral.

  “It’s being held at Chapel 13, along the main avenue, just past the children’s graves. About a mile from here on foot. But you might still make it in time to pay your respects at the graveside.”

  “Thank you!” Billy couldn’t afford to waste any more time. He tossed the pill into his mouth, swallowed it, and quickly downed two or three gulps of water. Then he stood up, set the glass back on the table, and thanked the old man once more. Less than a minute later, he was back outside in the cold.

  His head still felt two sizes too big for his skull, and the pain throbbed at his temples. He left his footprints behind on a seemingly endless path lined with rows of gravestones. The graves ranged from neglected and plain to lavish burial sites adorned with ornate columns, gold engravings, and marble sculptures that outdid all the others. Even in this place of supposed peace, there seemed to be an air of competition among the mourners.

  The chapel couldn’t be far now; Billy was passing the children’s graves. Most were bordered with weathered pebbles, barely visible through the light layer of snow. Toys and brightly painted stones rested on the graves, along with lanterns and stuffed animals. The wind whispered through the bare branches of the birches, spinning the pinwheels on the graves as if moved by invisible hands. A soft creaking echoed across the cemetery as the breeze turned the wheels. It was heartbreaking to read the names and dates of the children who had passed. Many parents seemed to process their grief by decorating the inscriptions with heartfelt nicknames like Our Little Angel or Daddy’s Little Princess.

  The chapel stood nestled in the snow like a massive fortress. Its exterior was simple, made of dark brick without any embellishments. Three doors, all painted white, provided entry, and the white-framed stained-glass windows formed a cheerful contrast to the dark facade. Each side wing had its own entrance, and a large gate was set into the middle of the rounded main building, from which two men dressed in black were just emerging.

  Relatives? Billy’s first thought. But as he got closer, he realized he didn’t recognize either of the men.

  Did the old man make a mistake? Is this someone else’s service, not mine?

  But the green sign in front of the chapel left no room for doubt. This was the right place: Chapel 13.

  “Excuse me,” Billy said, addressing the two men. “Is the service over?”

  The older man gave Billy a once-over with kind, brown eyes that appeared unnaturally large through the lenses of his glasses. He adjusted the frames until they sat just right on his nose.

  “My God,” the man said.

  “What?”

  “You have an incredible face.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry,” the man continued. “But you radiate such warmth and kindness. Don’t you think so, Patrick?”

  Billy was speechless. He didn’t know how to respond.

  “I’m sorry,” the man repeated. “Yes, the service just ended. Are you here for Billy Jones?”

  Billy went pale at hearing his own name. The fact that this stranger said it out loud made the looming threat feel all the more real. As if the brief newspaper article about the car crash had just been a mistake, but this, the funeral, was far too serious for a simple misunderstanding.

  “Yes,” Billy finally said. “I’m here for… him.”

  The younger man, who had just brushed the falling snowflakes from his copper-colored goatee, opened an umbrella and held it over himself and his companion. “How did you know Mr. Jones?” he asked.

  Who are these people?

  Who am I?

  Billy could feel their eyes on him, waiting for an answer, but he had no real response. So, he kept things vague. “He’s a friend of mine, yes.”

  “My condolences. I’m Ruediger, the pianist. I just played for the service. This is Patrick, my partner.”

  Billy let out a sigh of relief.

  Thank God! They don’t know him—or me—personally.

  Suddenly, Billy had a flash of hope. A theory struck him like a bolt of lightning, one that could explain everything: according to the newspaper, the driver had burned in the car. But what if it had been that strange woman he had hit, the one the rescue workers had mistaken for him? Billy himself had suffered amnesia from the crash. He must’ve woken up before the paramedics arrived and wandered off to look for help.

  “That would make sense,” Billy blurted out, his voice filled with sudden energy.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  Ruediger, the pianist, eyed him, now with a hint of skepticism. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Billy J…” Billy coughed as if choking on his own words.

  “Hmm?”

  Okay, Billy is definitely your first name. But what about your last name?

  “Billy Cyprus.”

  “Ah. So your name is also Billy? What a coincidence. And your last name is…”

  “Yeah, right, the name of a…,” Billy hesitated, “a Greek island in the Mediterranean.”

  Vivian’s dream destination. Where she always wanted to go if we’d ever had the money for a vacation.

  Billy forced a smile.

  Ruediger wasn’t smiling anymore. He just nodded. “Come with us,” he said.

  “Where?” All of a sudden, Billy felt an ominous sense that they were going to arrest him. Like cops. Take him away. Like a criminal.

  “We’re taking you to the funeral. Where else?”

  “Of course,” Billy replied, forcing another smile.