“Three years ago, my cousin Rachel Pierce worked as a journalist in Chicago, and she told me about a bakery explosion involving a young woman who survived with severe burns,” he said.
My stomach dropped because I already knew where this was going.
“She described a photo of that woman sitting in a hospital hallway with a workbook in her lap, still trying to study despite everything,” he continued.
I closed my eyes because I remembered that moment clearly, even though I had tried to bury it.
“That woman’s name was Alyssa Grant,” he said.
I opened my eyes slowly because that was my name before everything changed.
When I met him, I told him to call me Lila instead because I wanted to leave that version of myself behind.
“I knew your name before you gave me the new one,” he said gently.
I felt anger rise inside me like heat.
“So you tracked me down because of a story and decided to play hero,” I asked bitterly.
“No,” he said firmly. “I never planned anything like that.”
He explained that after his cousin died in an accident, he kept her notes and often listened to people read them to him because it made him feel close to her.