I spent thirty years mourning my first love, certain he died in a fire meant for us both. When my new neighbor knocked, I recognized him instantly — older, scarred, alive. Facing the woman who tried to erase us, I finally decided: this time, I’d fight for the truth.
If I hadn’t been so stubborn about the hydrangeas, I wouldn’t have seen the dead man move in next door.
That morning, I wasn’t thinking about plants — I was thinking about the fire.
A moving truck sat in the driveway next door. Men in matching shirts carried boxes up the front steps. Ordinary.
