On a summer morning in 1915, in the small town of Blackville, South Carolina, a woman was buried.

That sentence is not disputed.

What comes after it is.

The woman’s name was Essie Dunbar.

She was approximately thirty years old.

She had, according to those present, suffered an epileptic seizure sometime before the burial.

A physician had been called.

The physician had examined her and found no signs of life.

He had declared her dead.

And so the process of the funeral proceeded as funerals did in rural South Carolina in 1915: the body was placed in a wooden coffin, arrangements were made for a service the following morning, and at the appointed hour, three preachers conducted the ceremony at graveside, taking turns speaking over the sealed box that held what they all believed were the mortal remains of Essie Dunbar.

Her sister had not arrived when the service ended.

She lived in a neighboring town, and the journey had taken longer than expected.

The congregation waited as long as they reasonably could.

When the sister still had not appeared, the decision was made to lower the coffin into the six-foot grave that had been prepared.

The dirt was filled in over the wooden lid.

The funeral was concluded.

And then, a few minutes later, the sister arrived.

She had come all this way to see her sister one last time, and she was too late.