The cabin is older than you expected.

Tucked deep into the trees, surrounded by silence that feels intentional. Love calls it a family place—something passed down, something safe. The air smells like pine and dust, like memories that never quite leave.

“It’s quiet out here,” Love says as she unlocks the door. “That’s why I love it.”

Inside, everything feels preserved. Furniture covered in sheets. Framed photos lining the walls—weddings, holidays, faces that blur together the longer you look at them.

Love notices you staring.

“We have home movies,” she says lightly. “Downstairs. Want to see?”

The basement is cold.

Shelves stacked with tapes—labeled in careful handwriting. Dates stretching back decades. Love pops one into an old TV, the screen flaring to life with a low hum.

Static. Then a picture.

Children running through the woods outside the cabin. Laughter. The image is grainy, warped at the edges. A date flashes briefly in the corner.

You swallow.

The camera pans.

And stops.

Your face fills the screen.

Not similar. Not familiar.

Yours.

Same eyes. Same expression. Even the small scar near your brow you got last year.