Clara stood by the window, watching heavy raindrops drum against the sill. A biting wind howled outside; autumn was firmly taking hold.
It was her first autumn without him, and she had been terrified that memory would collapse upon her like a landslide, burying her under the events of a year ago and these endless, pouring rains. In the crib, her baby boy slept fitfully, as if sensing her mood, her grief, and a certain inexplicable sense of hopelessness.
Clara was waiting for her friend, who watched the baby whenever Clara had to pull a night shift at the manufacturing plant. The money Liam had left hadn't lasted long, even though they lived frugally and never allowed themselves any luxuries. Clara turned her gaze to the wall, where their photo hung in a simple wooden frame—a snapshot from their college days.
She and Liam had attended the same university but in different departments. At a campus party, Liam had been captivated by a girl from a parallel track with a wild mane of red curls and large green eyes. Liam had grown up in the foster care system, and when her parents found out who their daughter was dating, they were far from pleased. While her mother at least tried to maintain some semblance of a relationship with her only daughter, her father was unyielding.
"I'll cut you off. Don't come crying to me for help—you won't get a cent!" he had barked, ending the conversation.
At the time, she was a spoiled CEO's daughter and didn't believe him. She thought he would eventually calm down and understand; surely there was something human left in his soul beyond money and business meetings. But when she finally brought Liam home to meet them, her father wouldn't even let him across the threshold.
And so, Clara and Liam married in secret. They ended up in this tiny first-floor room in a drafty old frame house on the edge of town.
But she loved that house. Though it smelled of old wood and the floorboards groaned plaintively underfoot, there was something else in their home... she realized later it was love. It permeated their tiny room; it was a place she longed to return to again and again. They didn't need expensive renovations, a prestigious neighborhood, or modern amenities. Even when they were a week away from their next student housing check, the simplest bowl of oatmeal with a bit of brown sugar tasted heavenly.
"Clara, I found a job," Liam said one day. "It's in the city, though. Don't worry—I'll work a month there, then spend a month back here with you. But the pay is good. We'll be able to rent somewhere decent."
The word "decent" made her want to howl. Was there really no work in their own town? Money again...
"Maybe we could find something local?" she started hesitantly.
"No, I've made up my mind. Since we're together, I have to take care of you. I want to make sure you never have to want for anything."
Clara covered her face with her hands; there was no arguing with his stubbornness. Liam left, and a sense of anxiety bordering on despair took root in her soul. They spoke on the phone, but that nagging feeling followed her even into her dreams.
A month later, the news came that her husband wouldn't be coming back—not in a day, not in a week... not ever. A freak accident had stripped away everything she lived and breathed for. The taxi Liam was taking home had been cut off by a reckless driver...
"He's alive! It's a mistake!" she insisted when her parents arrived.
"No, sweetheart, he's gone. It's not a mistake... you need to rest."
While her mother fussed over her as if she were a small child, her father helped with the funeral arrangements. He remained mostly silent, as if acknowledging his own mistakes, keeping his eyes cast down, afraid to meet his daughter's gaze. But she didn't hold a grudge—what was the point?
Despite all the obstacles, she and Liam had been happy, even if only for a short time. She remembered asking to see him—the room with white walls filled with humming equipment, the body under a transparent shroud, a face so lifelike it seemed he had only fallen asleep for a moment and would wake up and smile at her again with that dear, familiar look.
Later, she had sat in the hallway while a doctor came by with papers, explaining something at length about why she needed to sign them. Clara nodded, hearing nothing. With a trembling hand, she scribbled her signature, mostly just so he would leave her alone.
Soon after, she realized she was pregnant. She refused to move out of the room despite her parents' pleas; she felt that by leaving, she would lose the last thing connecting her to her husband. Their little nest, built with such love, still held the memories of their happy life. Clara lived for those memories, falling asleep and praying Liam would appear in her dreams. And when her son was born, he looked exactly like his father...
***
That day, Clara was hurrying home from work. She ducked into a grocery store to grab some bread and suddenly... there by the display case, she saw Liam. The real Liam. For a split second, his gaze lingered on her, and then he hurried toward the checkout, glancing repeatedly at his watch. Clara followed him as if hypnotized. Her phone rang:
"Clara, where are you? I really have to get going," her friend said.
"I'm almost there. I'll explain everything when I get back," Clara whispered into the phone.
The man left the store, and she trailed behind him. He turned the corner of a nearby apartment building and approached an entrance. As he punched in the door code, he looked back, as if feeling Clara's intense stare. Then he stepped inside and the door swung shut. Clara's legs felt like lead as she sank onto a nearby bench. She couldn't believe her eyes... his face... Liam's face. How was it possible?
He didn't have a twin brother. She had buried her husband; she had accepted his death and moved on to raise their son. What was she supposed to do now? Her temples throbbed. Her friend called again, clearly losing patience. But Clara just sat and waited, afraid to miss him, afraid to lose him again—what if he didn't come out until tomorrow? It was six in the evening; he had clearly just come home from work. As she agonized over what to do, the door opened. Seeing her, the stranger who looked so much like Liam rolled his eyes toward the sky and began walking away at a brisk pace. Clara lunged after him.
"Wait... please, stop!"
He stopped but didn't turn around.
"May I ask you something?"
"What do you want?" The man turned, his eyes flashing with irritation.
Liam had never looked at her like that; his gaze had always been warm and loving. Up close, this man's face was slightly different—there was a thin wrinkle between his brows, and the left corner of his mouth twitched when he blinked. There was a scar on the right side of his forehead... had Liam had one? Clara suddenly realized with a pang of guilt that she was starting to forget exactly how her husband looked.
"You... you look exactly like my husband, but he died," she stammered.
"Resemblances happen! Don't follow me. Leave me alone!"
Clara squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them, the man was already far off, walking quickly. From the back, he didn't look like Liam at all. Her husband had been thinner and moved differently. Maybe it was just a coincidence. People look alike sometimes.
But her feet kept following him. In the square of an old park, he stopped. At that moment, another man approached him and handed him a folder. Clara was nearing them when the other man said his goodbyes and began walking toward her.
She nearly collided with him, and suddenly it clicked—this was the same doctor from the clinic who had given her those documents to sign.
"I don't know what to do," Clara said, coming level with the man who looked like Liam. "You have my husband's face! I can't just walk away."
"Come with me," he said, leading Clara toward a small café.
Once they were seated at a quiet table, the man remained silent for a while. Clara didn't rush him.
"What happened to your husband?"
"He died in a car accident a year ago."
The stranger looked deep into her eyes and began his story. Exactly a year ago, a fire had broken out in his apartment. He showed her the scars on his hands and face. He told her about his girlfriend, whom he had saved by wrapping her in a blanket. She was fine, but they had broken up. Because... he had a different face now. Even different eyes. Everything he needed had been transferred to him from a young man who hadn't survived. And she had given her consent; she had signed the papers...
Clara couldn't believe her ears. She had signed... so that was why the doctor had looked at her so strangely. She didn't know whether to scream with joy or weep.
"What is your name?"
"Michael. And now, I have to go. And... please don't follow me. I am a different person. I'm not Liam."
"Yes... I'm sorry... of course."
Clara didn't sleep a wink that night. She kept remembering Liam, his smile, the days they spent together. She wanted to find him again, to stand by his door and wait; he had to come out eventually. She missed him more than words could describe. The next day, as she walked home from work through the park, that same doctor was there, as if waiting for her.
"Did you want to talk about Liam?" she asked, catching up to him.
"No... about Michael. He isn't your husband, and you need to accept that."
"Is that all?" The man held her gaze sternly for a minute. "I didn't plan on harassing him. I just have something else I need to tell him. Where can I find him? Doctor, please, it's important! If you don't give me his address, I'll wait by that apartment door day and night!"
***
Clara walked along, glowing with happiness, clutching a piece of paper with an address in her palm. But she didn't have to go looking for Michael; he was sitting on a bench near the entrance, staring off into the distance as if waiting for someone.
"Hi," Clara said tentatively, sitting down beside him.
Michael turned to her and couldn't help but smile—her knit hat had slipped to the side, red curls were peeking out, and her cheeks were flushed from the walk.
"You look so much like my ex-girlfriend," the man said. "Do you want some ice cream?"
Clara nodded.
"What kind do you like?"
"Chocolate."
"I should have guessed..."
She couldn't take her adoring eyes off him. And he suddenly realized he was willing to play this game. Her game.
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