I kick aside the wreaths with jealousy and pull him out of his grave. Back home, I stir my potion to a turmoil, trusting the recipe’s biting aroma as I add the final ingredient. Once red, I pour it down his throat, and I smile as his chest begins to heave with fragile breaths, his reanimated pulse tinting his pallor mortis. I touch his arm, his muscles supple once again beneath his warming skin. He opens his eyes, and I grab my blade, his chest static once again as I boil cubes of his revived flesh in my soup. This way, he’ll be completely mine, and only mine, always.