Chapter 2 - The Reflection in the Glass
The diner’s warm yellow light reflected off the damp glass windows as rain hit Seattle’s streets in a relentless, steady rhythm. Across the small formica table, Aiden and Milo ate with an earnest, quiet restraint. They did not devour the burger and fries with wild desperation; instead, Aiden carefully cut the food in half, ensuring his younger brother had the larger share before touching his own.
I sat immobilized, my chest tight, watching every breath they took. Every movement felt like a phantom limb twitching in the dark. Aiden had a faint, light-colored freckle just above his left eyebrow—the exact mark Ethan carried from his toddler years. Milo chewed his lower lip thoughtfully between bites, the identical habit Liam exhibited whenever he was overwhelmed.
"Ma'am?" Aiden’s voice pulled me back from the brink of absolute panic. He had paused, holding his paper napkin, looking at me with a concern far too mature for a twelve-year-old. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
A harsh laugh almost escaped my throat. A ghost. If only he knew.
"I'm sorry," I choked out, pressing my palms together under the table to hide their violent trembling. "You just... you remind me of someone. Someone very dear to me."
Milo looked up, his large, dark eyes round and curious. "Your kids?"
The directness of the question struck me like a physical blows. Seven years of quiet, controlled grief—seven years of burying myself in corporate finance, late nights, and an empty house in the suburbs—threatened to burst wide open.
"Yes," I managed to say, forcing a weak smile. "My twin boys. Ethan and Liam."
Aiden went still. His eyes flicked nervously toward the diner's exit before settling back on my face. "Where are they now?"
"They passed away," I said, the words taste like ash. "Seven years ago."
A strange, heavy silence fell over the booth. Milo stopped chewing, his eyes darting toward his older brother as if waiting for a signal. Aiden’s posture grew rigid, his hand tightening subtly around Milo’s wrist under the table. There was no pity in Aiden’s expression—only a deep, cautious suspicion.
"How old were they?" Aiden asked quietly.
"Five," I answered. "They would have been twelve this year."
Aiden inhaled sharply. He looked down at his plate, then back at me, his jaw clenching tightly. "We need to go, Milo. Grab your coat."
May you like
"Wait!" I blurted out, reaching across the table without thinking. Aiden flinched, pulling his arm back defensively. I immediately drew my hand back, horrified by my own intrusion. "Please, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. You don't have to leave. It's pouring outside."
"We can't stay," Aiden said, his voice dropping an octave, laced with a cold, desperate urgency that felt entirely unnatural. "We aren't supposed to talk to people from the East side. We shouldn't have come in here."
