I wake up, but something doesn’t feel right.

  I’m lying on something hard—too hard. The air is thick, stale. I try to sit up and crack—my head slams into something just inches above me. I freeze, heart racing. I reach up with trembling hands and touch... wood?

  I lay back down, breath shallow, and try to make sense of it. My arms brush against smooth surfaces on either side. There's no room. No light. Just darkness. Just wood.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  What the hell?

  Where am I?

  My fingers claw at the wooden ceiling. Splinters bite into my skin as I press against it—hard. It doesn’t budge. Panic starts to rise in my chest like a wave. I try again, this time slamming my fists upward, over and over, until my knuckles ache.

  Nothing.

  Silence.

  I shout. My voice bounces back at me, muffled and useless. My ears strain for any sound—movement, footsteps, something. But there's only my own ragged breathing and the dull thud of my heart hammering in my chest.

  This can’t be real.

  But the air is getting hotter. Heavier. My lungs are working harder now. There’s no mistaking it anymore.

  I’m in a box.

  A coffin.

  Six feet under.