A crescent shaped birthmark just below his collarbone.
Everything stopped.
My breath caught, and the room seemed to tilt around me as memories flooded back without warning. I was a child again, sitting on a porch beside my older brother named Jason, who had the exact same mark on his chest that he used to joke was a moon.
Jason disappeared when he was thirteen, and we never found him.
I stared at the mark and then at his face, noticing a faint scar under his ear that matched another memory. My knees gave out, and I hit the floor without feeling the pain.
“Olivia, what is wrong,” Daniel demanded, his voice sharp with concern.
I forced myself to speak through the shaking. “Did you ever have another name,” I asked.
He froze completely before answering, “No.”
I knew he was lying.
The rest of the shift passed in silence, and that night I found an old photograph of me and my brother. The next morning, I brought it with me and placed it on his lap.
He looked at it, and all the color drained from his face.
“Where did you get this,” he asked, but his voice had changed.
“It is mine,” I said.
I asked him who he really was, and after a long silence, he whispered, “My name used to be Jason Brooks.”