Father said: «You are no longer our daughter.» They took everything. 3 years later… They declared me dead. I walked into my funeral—I smiled and said…

Champagne fountains. A diamond the size of a small planet. Elena’s wedding.

Everyone was there. Aunt Rachel, smiling like she didn’t hang up on me. My cousins, clinking glasses.

Even Great Uncle. Theo, who lived in another country and never showed up for anything. But not me.

Not one mention. Not one photo. Not even a wish Maya could have been here caption.

I was gone. Erased like I never existed. Until I looked closer.

In one of the photos, taken at the reception, there was a speech in progress. A toast. Her husband stood smiling, and next to him, my father, holding a wine glass, speaking into a microphone, grinning, under the caption, to the one daughter who always made us proud.

And there it was. The switch. Not just forgotten.

Replaced. Curious, I searched the family business registry. A few clicks, and my blood went cold.

The trust fund my grandparents had left for me, college, startup money, everything, was transferred to Elena six months after my death. Legally, quietly, she didn’t mourn me, she profited off me. I stared at her smiling face, white dress sparkling in the sun, and it hit me.

My sister didn’t just replace me, she erased me. Enough was enough. If they wanted me dead, they were about to see just how alive I really was.

The next morning, I walked into a law office with a stack of documents and a fire in my chest. Passport stamps. Employment contracts.

Tax filings. Lease agreements. Flight records.

Proof. Unshakeable. Unforgivable.

The young attorney across the desk looked stunned. You’re… challenging your own death? I slid the forged certificate across the table. I’m not dead, but I plan to haunt them.

He blinked, nodded slowly. Then we’ll start with a fraud complaint and a motion to revoke the declaration of death. It’ll take time, but legally, I don’t have time, I cut in.

Because, apparently, I have a memorial this Sunday. He looked up. I didn’t flinch.

Earlier that day, a message came through from an unknown number. Just one line. They’re holding a memorial for you next Sunday at St. Albans.

No name. No explanation. But I knew the church.

I knew the address. It was real. And so was my plan.

I stood at the window of my apartment that night. The city. Lights glittering below me like sparks waiting for gasoline…