Some people lose their spouse to death. I lost mine to a question.
Years passed. My hair darkened, then began to gray at the temples. Friends stopped inviting me to weddings because they did not know what to say. My parents aged. Nina's parents moved away after Aileen told me the town had become "one large wound."
I worked. I ate. I paid bills.
I smiled when expected.
But every morning, some small part of me still woke up and reached across an empty bed.
Seventeen years later, I was on a business trip nearly 1,300 miles from home. I had driven too long, slept too little, and survived on gas station coffee that tasted like burnt regret. The trip was supposed to be simple: meet a client, sign papers, drive back, and return to my quiet life.
It was late afternoon when I stopped at a small gas station to grab a coffee before getting back on the road.
The place sat off a two-lane highway, with cracked pavement and a faded red sign buzzing above the pumps.
Inside, the air smelled like hot dogs, floor cleaner, and old coffee. A radio played low behind the counter. I picked up a paper cup, filled it from the machine, and tried not to think about how tired I was.
As I walked to the register, I froze.
The young cashier could not have been more than 20. But he looked exactly like I did as a teenager. The same eyes. The same jawline. Even the same crooked smile.
For a moment, my body forgot how to move.
He looked up from the scanner. "You good, sir?"
His voice was not mine, but it was close enough to make my skin prickle.
I walked closer, barely able to breathe. There were tiny differences, sure. His hair was a little darker. He was leaner than I had been. But the face staring back at me was the one from my old graduation photos. The one Nina used to tease me about.
I reached for my wallet with shaking fingers.
"What's your name?" I asked. "And why do you look exactly like my twin brother... or like I did when I was 18?"
His expression changed.
Not confusion. Not annoyance.
Fear.
"My name?" he repeated.
I pulled an old photo from my wallet and handed it to him.
It was creased from years of being carried. In it, I was 18, standing beside my old truck, grinning at the camera with my hair falling in my eyes. Nina had once told me I looked like trouble in that picture.
