I thought I was driving to my late wife’s mountain house to finally let her go. Instead, I found two abandoned twin girls standing barefoot on the porch, clutching stale bread like it was the last thing keeping them alive. Minutes later, one of them whispered my wife’s name… and led me toward a hidden trail only Olivia had ever known.

A cold sweat broke out across my neck. The picture inside the house.

I stood up so fast my vision blurred. I didn’t wait for them. I strode up the creaking wooden steps of the porch, my boots heavy against the wood, and pushed the front door open. It wasn’t locked. It hadn’t been locked in three years, not since the day the paramedics wheeled Olivia out on a stretcher, and I had followed them in a trance, leaving the world behind.

The air inside was thick with the scent of pine, dust, and old paper. The dust motes danced in the pale shafts of twilight cutting through the windows. Everything was exactly where it belonged—the plaid throw blanket over the armchair, the half-empty mug of chamomile tea Olivia had left on the side table, now dried into a dark, cracked crust.

And there, on the mantelpiece above the cold fireplace, was the photograph.