Two girls stood together near a row of cubbies. Same height. Same eyes. Same small freckle beneath the left eye that Wren had carried since infancy.
Wren, and her exact copy.
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
The next morning, I drove Wren to school myself instead of letting her take the bus, some instinct insisting I needed to see this for myself before I let myself fully believe it.
Kids were streaming in through the front entrance when Wren suddenly pointed excitedly.
“There she is!”
I looked up, and my breath stopped completely.
A little girl who could have been Wren’s exact reflection stood near the doors, backpack slung over one shoulder, laughing at something.
But what actually shattered me wasn’t the girl herself.
It was who was holding her hand.
It wasn’t a stranger.
It was Paige. My own sister.
“Paige,” I whispered, my voice barely working. “I never imagined this from you.”
And standing there on that sidewalk, watching my sister’s face go through a rapid, horrified cascade of recognition, I understood, all at once, that I had spent six years living inside a lie I’d never once been given the chance to question.
Paige froze completely, her hand still wrapped around Elisa’s small fingers.
“Adele,” she said. “I can explain.”
“Please do,” I said. “Because right now, I’m looking at a dead daughter walking into school holding your hand.”
Paige’s face crumpled. “She’s not dead, Adele. Obviously. I need you to let me explain before you do anything you can’t take back.”
We stepped away from the crowd of parents and kids, Paige quickly arranging for another mother to walk both girls inside, promising she’d only be a few minutes.
