The bell above the bridal shop chimed like a funeral dirge. I froze mid-step, the bouquet trembling in my grip. There he was—Daniel, my husband of nearly three years—kneeling in front of another woman, holding up a diamond ring identical to mine. The sales associate smiled like this was normal. Like I wasn’t standing there in my rain-soaked coat, the card in my pocket reading ‘Happy Anniversary’ suddenly burning against my skin.

I didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. I turned and walked straight to the Global Cryonics Center downtown. My hands didn’t shake as I signed the waiver. ‘Voluntary Suspension – No Revival Guarantee.’ They asked if I was sure. I told them yes. I wasn’t dying. I was escaping.

Now, seventy years later, I’m awake. And so is he.