“It’s him,” Stefan whispered beside me. “The boy from my dreams.”
“Stefan,” I said carefully, though my voice shook despite my effort to sound calm, “that’s just coincidence. We should go.”
But Stefan didn’t move.
“No, Mom,” he insisted quietly. “I know him.”
Before I could stop him, he ran across the playground.
The other boy slowed his swing and looked up as Stefan approached. The two children stood facing each other, studying one another with identical curiosity.
Then the boy reached out his hand.
Stefan took it.
They smiled at the same moment.
I forced my legs to move and followed them.
Nearby stood a woman watching the scene unfold. She looked to be in her early forties, her posture slightly tense, as if she had learned to expect trouble before it arrived.
“Excuse me,” I began cautiously. “I’m sorry to bother you, but our boys look incredibly similar.”
She turned toward me.
And the moment our eyes met, recognition hit me like a flash of lightning.
I had seen her before.
Time had added faint lines to her face, but I knew exactly where from.
She had been there in the hospital.
The nurse who had steadied my hand when I signed those forms.
“Have we met before?” I asked carefully.
“I don’t believe so,” she replied quickly, though her gaze shifted away.
I mentioned the hospital where my twins had been delivered.
She hesitated.
“I used to work there,” she admitted.
“You were there when my sons were born,” I said quietly.
She shook her head slightly. “I saw many patients.”
“My son had a twin,” I continued. “They told me he died.”
Behind us, the boys had already begun talking as if they had known each other their entire lives.
“What is your son’s name?” I asked.
She swallowed.
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