The funeral was winding down. People had started drifting to their cars, murmuring their goodbyes in soft tones. The late afternoon sky had gone pale and pink, the kind of light that made everything look older, more fragile.

You stood near the tree line, hands stuffed in your coat pockets, your best friend Addison a few feet behind you—quiet, steady, just there.

You didn’t notice the car at first. Or the figure that stepped out of it. It was the stillness that got your attention.

Addison’s voice came low. “There’s someone coming.”

You turned.

A girl—tall, thin, nervous—was walking slowly across the grass, arms wrapped around herself. She looked unsure, even scared. Her hair caught the light in a way that felt familiar, but your mind didn’t connect the pieces right away.

Then your mother stepped out from behind her.

Your breath caught.

The girl stopped a few feet away.

“Hi,” she said. Barely above a whisper.

You blinked at her, confused. She looked young—maybe thirteen, fourteen—but not a face you recognized. Not fully. Not until she looked up.

And you saw your eyes.

It hit you all at once, like the air went out of your lungs.