I was mid-argument with a hydrangea when the dead man moved in next door.
The plant was winning. My hands were muddy, my thoughts were stuck thirty years in the past, and the fire wouldn’t leave my head. Smoke. Sirens. A closed casket no one wanted to question.
That’s when the moving truck rolled up.
Two guys in matching shirts hauled boxes like it was any other Tuesday. Ordinary. Boring. Then the driver stepped out.
My world tilted.
He straightened like gravity had been stapled to his spine. Same jawline. Same eyes. Same way of leaning forward when he walked, like he was chasing something he didn’t want to miss.
No.
That was impossible.
I spun, rushed inside, slammed the door, locked the deadbolt. My phone buzzed—Janet, again—but I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move past the memory of flames eating up the night we were supposed to run away together.
For three days, I hid in my own house.
On the fourth morning, someone knocked.
Three slow raps. Calm. Confident.
“Who is it?” My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
“Elias,” he said. “Your new neighbor.”
I cracked the door. He stood there with a basket of muffins and a polite smile, like the universe was playing a joke I didn’t sign up for.
Then his sleeve slipped.
Burn scars. Grafted skin. And beneath it—distorted but unmistakable—the symbol we’d inked on ourselves at eighteen. Infinity. Forever.
My heart forgot how to beat.
“Gabe?” I breathed.
His smile fell. “You weren’t supposed to recognize me, Sammie.”
The truth landed like a dropped plate.
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