“What does she look like?” I asked, my voice not entirely steady.
“Like me,” Wren said. “Exactly like me. Except her hair’s parted the other way.”
Then her whole face lit up. “I took a picture!”
⸻
She handed me her small pink camera, the kind of cheap plastic toy that still somehow takes real photographs. I scrolled to the last image with hands that had started shaking.
Two girls stood together near a row of cubbies. Same height. Same eyes. Same small freckle beneath the left eye that Wren had carried since infancy.
Wren, and her exact copy.
⸻
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
The next morning, I drove Wren to school myself instead of letting her take the bus, some instinct insisting I needed to see this for myself before I let myself fully believe it.
⸻
Kids were streaming in through the front entrance when Wren suddenly pointed excitedly.
“There she is!”
⸻
I looked up, and my breath stopped completely.
A little girl who could have been Wren’s exact reflection stood near the doors, backpack slung over one shoulder, laughing at something.
But what actually shattered me wasn’t the girl herself.
It was who was holding her hand.
