The late summer sun rested heavily over Cypress Square in Arroyo Vista, Arizona.
Vendors shouted about shaved ice and roasted nuts, a street musician played softly near a fountain wrapped in climbing flowers, and visitors snapped photos as water sparkled in the heat. It was the kind of afternoon that felt predictable, safe, and unremarkable. That was what Lauren Whitmore had always believed.
She stood near a bench, her five-year-old son Noah leaning against her leg. They had come for a small treat and a breath of air, a break from overdue bills and her long shifts at the café. Noah cradled his blue raspberry ice like treasure, syrup staining his fingers.
He stared toward the fountain and said quietly, “Mom. He’s there. The boy from my dreams.”
Lauren smiled, assuming he meant a performer.
“Who, honey? Someone from school?”
Noah shook his head. “No.
He was with me before I was born. We were together.”
Her chest tightened. “That’s not how it works, sweetheart.”
Noah slipped from her grasp and pointed.
Near the fountain, a boy about his age knelt beside a battered box of cheap trinkets. His clothes were worn thin, shoes splitting at the toes. Sunlight caught in his sandy curls.
And his face—
Lauren’s breath stalled. The resemblance was undeniable. Same brows, same mouth, the same thoughtful tilt of the head.
Even the way he bit his lip while counting coins mirrored Noah exactly. A memory stirred—bright hospital lights, voices fading as anesthesia pulled her under, waking with a strange emptiness she had never been able to explain. She had buried it, called it confusion.
“Mom,” Noah whispered, “his eyes are like mine.”
Before she could stop him, Noah ran. She called his name, but her voice dissolved in the heat. He stopped in front of the boy, knocking over the box.
Plastic toys scattered. They stared at each other, as if recognizing something older than memory. The boy spoke first.
“Hi. I’m Eli. Do you dream about white rooms and loud beeping too?”
Noah nodded.
“We were babies. Together.”
Lauren approached, knees weak. “Eli… who takes care of you?”
He gestured toward a woman asleep on a nearby bench, her clothes faded, exhaustion etched into her face.
“That’s Aunt Rosa. We sell things so we can eat. She needs medicine.”
The world tilted.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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