Chapter 6

The photographs followed my life from my first clumsy steps through kindergarten, elementary school, and into middle school. Most were pictures of me alone or standing with my parents.

I examined each image with care, hunting for that shadowy figure from the edge of my memory.

My hand stopped when I reached for an album from second grade.

It held a group photograph from a spring field trip. Dozens of children in matching uniforms stood at the park entrance, all grinning at the camera.

I sat in the second row, my hair in two neat pigtails. In the farthest corner of the back row stood another girl with the same hairstyle.

She was not looking at the camera. Her head was turned slightly, tilted in my direction.

Her face was soft and unclear, blurred by distance and the photograph's poor quality. Yet her outline and the set of her shoulders mirrored mine with unsettling precision.

"That is her." I pointed at the image, my voice unsteady.

Zach leaned close and enlarged the picture on his phone. "Who is she? A classmate?"

I shook my head, straining to retrieve something solid from the haze. "I do not recall her face. I have no memory of her at all."

How could I forget a classmate who resembled me so closely? Unless something was done to my memories.

I swallowed my unease and continued turning pages. Several photographs later, I found an image that stopped my breath.

This was not a group shot. It was a casual snapshot. The setting was the backyard of the old house, beneath the broad branches of the oak tree.

Two little girls stood in the photograph, both wearing the same pink princess dress and holding hands.

One was me, and the other was the girl from the corner of the group photo.

This time, she faced the camera directly. Her smile was bright and sweet.

Her face was a perfect reflection of my own. It was nearly impossible to tell us apart.

The only detail that distinguished us was the small silver bracelet circling her wrist.

"Hold on," Zach said slowly. "Are the two of you twins?"

"Absolutely not," I replied at once. "I am an only child."

Then who was she? Why did she appear beside me, dressed in my clothes, smiling for photographs in my own backyard?

I turned the picture over. On the back, written in my mother's elegant script, were the words: [Grace and Halle. Happy Seventh Birthday.]

Halle. The name worked like a key, springing open a rusted lock somewhere deep in my mind.

I remembered. Halle Lane. She was not a classmate. She was the daughter of my mother's distant cousin.

Her parents worked far from home most of the year, so Halle stayed with us.

From kindergarten until the end of second grade, we were hardly ever apart.

We ate at the same table. We slept in the same room. We wore matching clothes and attended the same school. Everyone remarked that we could pass for twins.

But what happened next? What came after? Why did Halle vanish from every photograph beyond second grade? Where did she go?

My thoughts spun in frantic circles. That portion of my past lay hidden beneath a thick fog, unreachable no matter how hard I stretched toward it.

I grabbed my phone and called my uncle, Conner Flynn, who lived overseas. After my parents passed, he remained my only close relative.

The phone rang for a long stretch before he answered. "Grace? Why are you calling at this hour?"

"Uncle Conner, I must ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth," I said, the words tumbling out. "Who is Halle Lane? Where did she go?"

A heavy silence filled the line.

Thirty seconds passed. Then my uncle spoke, his voice thin and worn. "You remember her now?"

"Uncle, please. You have to tell me."

He released a long, weary breath. "Halle is gone."

"Gone? What does that mean?" My chest tightened.

"She passed away," he said, nearly whispering. "A few days after your seventh birthday, she fell from the oak tree in the backyard. The doctors could not save her."

My mind went blank. A dull ringing sounded in my ears. How could she be dead?

"The accident shattered you," Conner continued, his tone thick with old grief. "You were ill for a very long time. When you woke, you had forgotten Halle entirely.

"The doctors called it a trauma response. Selective amnesia.

"To help you heal, your parents and I agreed to bury the past. We removed every trace of her. We packed away her belongings and hid all the photographs in which she appeared. We never spoke her name again.

"I never imagined you would uncover any of this."