If I hadn’t insisted on replanting the hydrangeas myself that morning, I might never have seen the impossible happen.

For thirty years, I believed my first love died in a fire that was meant to take both of us. I carried that grief like a second spine — rigid, permanent. But when the moving truck pulled into the driveway next door and a man stepped out, older and marked by scars, my world tilted.

He moved slowly, as though decades pressed against his shoulders. The sunlight caught his face, and for one breathless second, I believed in miracles.

Same jawline.
Same eyes.
The same way he leaned forward when he walked — like he was afraid of missing something.

I rushed inside and locked the door, heart slamming against my ribs. For three days I avoided the windows, counting unfamiliar cars like they were threats. On the fourth morning, I almost convinced myself I’d imagined him.

Then came the knock. Three steady raps.

“Who is it?” I called.

“It’s Elias,” the man answered. “Your new neighbor.”

I opened the door just enough to see him holding a basket of muffins, smiling politely. I tried to act normal — until his sleeve slid back.

The skin along his wrist was tight and shiny, scarred from grafts. And there, distorted but unmistakable, was the infinity symbol we’d once tattooed onto ourselves.

My voice escaped before I could stop it.

“Gabe?”

His smile faded. “You weren’t supposed to recognize me, Sammie. But you deserve the truth.”

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