For nine years, I heard nothing. No calls. No messages. Not even a thank-you. I tried finding her, but it was as if she’d disappeared from the face of the earth. Then one afternoon, I overheard two women at the grocery store whispering her name. Lila. My heart nearly stopped.
“She just moved back into the old Miller house,” one of them said. My chest tightened. After everything, she was back? I drove straight there, my hands shaking on the steering wheel. When the door creaked open, I almost fainted.
Inside, I found walls covered with framed photos of… me. Birthday parties I hadn’t attended. Family gatherings I’d never brought her to. Vacations she wasn’t on. There I was, in picture after picture — only I wasn’t alone. In every photo, Lila stood right beside me, smiling like she belonged there.
My breath caught. “What… what is this?” I whispered. From the hallway, she appeared — thinner, older, but with the same piercing eyes. “You finally came,” she said softly. “I’ve been waiting for you.” My blood ran cold.