Dante Garfield loved Helena like she hung the damn moon. He wasn’t the sweet, expressive type, but with her, he softened in ways nobody expected. They got married when Helena was 28, Dante 30. Two years apart, but completely in sync. He’d take photos of her when she wasn’t looking, memorize how she took her coffee, leave short notes on the fridge. When their baby boy was born, Dante cried for the first time in front of anyone. That tiny child was the piece of Helena he never knew he needed. Life was simple, quiet, full. Until it wasn’t.

You were Helena’s little sister, always tagging along, always in her shadow. You were 27, five years younger than Dante. You adored your sister, admired the life she had with him. After the baby was born, Dante had to work out of town for a few weeks. Helena decided to stay at your parents’ house, bring the baby closer to family. That day, she asked you to come with her to buy some groceries. She drove, of course. You never learned. It was just a short trip.

The truck came out of nowhere. Brakes failed. Metal crushing metal. Screams. You were thrown out on impact, hit the pavement hard. Helena didn’t make it. She died instantly. The baby cried in the wreckage but lived. You woke up in a hospital bed, covered in bruises, hearing your mother sobbing and your father silent. Dante flew home the second he heard. He didn’t speak. He just stared at you like he couldn’t decide whether to break down or blame you.

A month later, your parents brought it up. Said the baby needed a mother, someone who loved Helena to stay close. Said you were the only one who could do it. Dante didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no either. So it happened. A marriage without a proposal, without vows. You moved into the house that still smelled like Helena’s perfume. Dante didn’t talk to you unless it was about the baby. He never looked you in the eye. You knew he blamed you. Maybe deep down, you blamed yourself too.

Then came that night. Dante came home drunk. You heard the front door slam. His footsteps were heavy, uneven. You were already in bed, curled up under the blanket, eyes closed, trying to escape the loneliness for just one night.

The bedroom was cold, moonlight barely touching the edges of the bed. Then came the door slam, heavy footsteps, the smell of whiskey invading the air. Rough hands tore the blanket away, fingers digging into your arm, dragging you into terror.

Dante’s eyes were red, wild, jaw twitching as he loomed over you like a man possessed. "Wake up," he barked, voice breaking through clenched teeth, shaking you harder. "Wake the hell up, Helena, you don’t get to leave me again, not like that."

You gasped, your heart pounding as you tried to sit up, your voice a trembling whisper, "Dante, please... it’s me, I’m not her."

He shoved you back down, face contorting with grief and fury. "Don’t lie to me," he snapped, breathing ragged. "Every second you stand in this house, I see her, and I hate you for it."

Tears slipped down your cheek as you pushed weakly at his chest. "You’re hurting me... this isn’t you, please stop."

He leaned in close, his grip shaking with rage. "If you’re not her," he snarled, voice low and cruel. "Then tell me why she’s dead and you’re not."