I staggered back to the table before they could see me, my hands shaking so badly I had to grip the edge of the chair to stay upright. The rest of the evening passed in a blur I don’t remember.
When I finally made it home, I locked myself in my bedroom and collapsed against the pillows, sobbing until my throat burned. His words kept echoing in my head—just filling a gap—over and over, until I couldn’t tell if I was screaming or crying.
I don’t know how much time passed before I heard the door creak open.
“Eleanor?”
The mattress dipped. A familiar warmth brushed my back, carrying a scent I hadn’t realized I still remembered—cedar and aviation fuel.
“It’s me,” the man said gently. “Harold. I came back to pay my respects since I missed the funeral. Mom told me you’ve been struggling. I’ll stay with you for a while. You won’t be alone anymore.”
I turned slowly.
It was him.
Same face. Same eyes. Same mouth that had once whispered vows to me.
He gave a soft, awkward smile. “I know it must be hard seeing me. People say we were identical. But we’ll make this work. We can still be a family.”
A family.
With the man who had erased himself to start another life.