Rachel stayed up until 4 a.m. staring at old photos of Michael holding the boys as toddlers—memories now poisoned by confusion.
At dawn Wednesday, Rachel and Ethan stood outside Apartment 14.
A second-floor open-air hallway. Rusted green railing. A blue metal door.
Rachel raised her hand to knock—paused, trembling.
Ethan placed a hand on her shoulder.
Rachel rang the bell.
Footsteps inside.
The door opened.
Michael stood there in sweatpants and a T-shirt, coffee in hand, clearly just awake.
He stared, confused for a second—
Then something shifted in his face.
Recognition. Shock. Fear.
“Rachel,” he whispered.
“Hi, Michael,” Rachel said, her voice icy—nothing like her own. “You’re not going to invite us in?”
Michael froze in the doorway.
Then stepped aside.
The apartment was small but tidy: modest furniture, small kitchen, a hallway leading to bedrooms.
On the wall—framed photos that made Rachel’s heart feel squeezed in a fist:
Michael with another woman—young, smiling.
Michael with that woman and two little girls.
A family.
“Sit down,” Michael finally said, voice shaking.
They sat on the small couch.
Michael sat across from them, coffee forgotten in his hand.
The silence was heavy—almost physical.