A few days later, we took Ryan and our dog Brandy on a simple mushroom-foraging walk. The day felt calm and bright, the kind of memory you know will stay with you. Then Brandy’s bark shifted into something urgent. When I looked around, Ryan had vanished. Panic drove me through the trees until his laughter finally reached me—along with Brandy’s playful barks—leading us into a clearing we never knew existed.
There, half-hidden among moss and pines, stood old graves. Someone had tended them; dried bouquets lay carefully on the stones. And at one small marker, Ryan knelt, pressing his hand to a ceramic photograph he claimed looked like me. When I saw it, my breath collapsed. The picture showed a child who could only be me at four years old, wearing a shirt from an old Polaroid. Beneath it was my birthday—carved onto a grave.
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