My hands shook endlessly.
Michael slipped the ring onto my finger and looked at me the way a drowning man might look at something keeping him afloat.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
I signed the marriage license with unsteady fingers, never imagining that my sister’s ghost was already moving to save me.
For the first week, Michael behaved tenderly.
He cooked breakfast.
He used my name instead of hers.
Then he left for the store one morning, and everything shifted.
Clara’s photograph seemed to watch me from the hallway shelf.
A silver sedan turned into the driveway.
An elderly man emerged, holding a small wooden box tightly against his chest.
His suit was wrinkled, and his gray hair had thinned.
The moment he looked toward the porch, he stopped cold.
“My God,” he whispered. “You’re the living image of her.”
“I know who you are.” His voice trembled. “May I come in?”
