He held a small bouquet in one hand and a sealed envelope in the other.
For several seconds my mind refused to process what I was seeing. I gripped the doorframe and reminded myself to breathe.
It couldn’t be him. Daniel had been buried 31 years ago.
Then I noticed something unusual.
When the man shifted his weight, I saw that he walked with a slight limp in his right leg—subtle but permanent, the kind that had clearly been there for years.
Daniel had never walked that way.
Which meant the man on my porch was not a ghost.
He handed me the envelope. I hesitated before taking it, then slowly opened it. Inside was a birthday card.
“Happy birthday, sister.”
My heart began racing. The only brother I had ever known was gone.
“Happy birthday, Regina,” the man said gently. “My name is Ben. Before you ask anything, please sit down. There’s something about the fire that you were never told.”
I let him inside because I didn’t know what else to do.
Ben sat across from me while I perched on the edge of the couch, holding a cup of coffee I didn’t remember pouring. He glanced around the room, then looked back at me.
“You and Daniel weren’t twins,” he said.
