I survived by refusing to look back.

Until the noise started.

It was a Sunday when I heard furniture scraping along the stairwell wall. A man’s voice said, “Careful with the corner,” followed by a woman’s laugh. I looked out the window.

A young family was moving in. A dark-haired woman gave instructions while holding a clipboard. A toddler clutched a pink stuffed rabbit. And a man carried a couch through the doorway.

For a second, my chest tightened.

That could have been us.

Then he looked up toward my window.

He had Ron’s eyes. Ron’s mouth. Ron’s haircut.

It wasn’t resemblance. It was him.

I stepped back, knocking a glass to the floor. “That’s impossible,” I whispered to myself.

I followed the sound of footsteps into the hallway before I could stop myself.

He reached the top of the stairs with the little girl on his hip and paused at the apartment next to mine.

“Excuse me,” I said.

He turned politely. Up close, there was no doubt.