I told myself I was just fixing the soil, trimming the edges—anything to keep my mind from drifting back to the fire that divided my life into a “before” and an “after.” But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.
He stepped out of a moving truck slowly, like time itself weighed on him. The sunlight hit his face—and in that surreal, breath-stopping instant, it felt like the dead had come back to life.
Same jawline. Same way of walking, slightly leaning forward like he was always chasing something unseen.
Gabriel.
I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over the hose. I rushed inside, shut the door, and pressed my forehead against it, my heart racing like it had three decades earlier.
For three days, I avoided looking outside. I peeked through slivers of curtain, hiding like I was the one with something to fear.
For illustration purposes
On the fourth morning, there was a knock.
Three slow, deliberate taps.
“Who is it?” I asked, even though deep down, I already knew.
“Elias,” came the reply. “Your new neighbor.”
I opened the door just enough to see him standing there, holding a basket of muffins like this was any ordinary introduction between neighbors.
Then his sleeve slipped back.
The skin on his forearm was tight, shiny in places—grafted. And beneath it, distorted by burns, I saw something that made my breath catch.
An infinity symbol.
