As we walked down the carpeted hallway, Penelope glanced at me. “Was there someone else outside? I thought I heard you talking to someone before I found you.”
I opened my mouth, the extraordinary tale of my mirror-image standing right on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to tell her everything. But before I could form a single word, a dark shadow blocked our path.
“Finally, where have you been? Everyone’s waiting,” said Afonso, my father, appearing before us with a deep, impatient frown.
I immediately shut my mouth, swallowing the urge to tell what had happened. I simply lowered my head.
And so, the party continued. I endured the forced smiles, the automatic, rhythmic applause, and the blinding flashes of cameras. I participated in everything mechanically, like a well-trained actor, but my mind was miles away. It kept traveling back out to the cold alley, back to the magical, bizarre moment when I met Luke. That boy so undeniably similar, yet living a reality so brutally different from mine.
Later that night, back at the sprawling mansion, I dragged my feet through the luxurious, quiet hallways to my bedroom. It was a setting straight out of any child’s wildest dream—the latest video games stacked neatly, high-end tablets, and expensive toys scattered everywhere across the thick rug. I ignored all of it. I collapsed face-first onto my plush bed, clutching a silk pillow to my chest. I rolled over and stared blankly at the high ceiling, completely lost in thought.
The image of Luke’s face simply wouldn’t leave my head. How could someone so identical to me exist? Where did he live? Why were his clothes so dirty and torn like that?
Meanwhile, miles away in the darkest corner of the city, Luke was huddled on a damp piece of discarded cardboard on the freezing sidewalk of an alley. His deep blue eyes were fixed on the starry sky, but his mind was entirely stuck on that strange encounter. He was agonizing over how there could be another kid out there just like him. A boy who had absolutely everything, while he had nothing.
Even without knowing it, separated by a massive chasm of wealth and distance, the two of us shared the exact same thought from that day onward.
Would we ever see each other again?
Looking back now, I realize that while I was wrestling with the impossible reality of a boy who wore my face, the ghosts of that same reality were already haunting my mother.
Night had descended upon the city, wrapping the bustling streets and our quiet, sprawling mansion in a heavy, cold blanket. I didn’t know it then, lying awake and confused in my room, but down the hall, Penelope was fighting a brutal battle of her own. The luxurious silence of the master bedroom was broken only by my mother’s restless, frantic sighs. She tossed and turned, the heavy silk covers tangling around her legs as she fought a nightmare that felt suffocatingly real.
Lying beside my father, she let out distressed, broken murmurs. Her face, normally so calm and elegant, was twisted into an expression of raw despair. Afonso wasn’t exactly the comforting type. Bothered by her constant thrashing, he forced his eyes open and let out a heavy, impatient sigh. With zero finesse, he grabbed her shoulders and gave her a harsh shake.
“Wake up, Penelope,” he snapped, his voice thick with irritation.
My mother’s eyes flew open. She gasped for air as if she had been held underwater, shooting up in bed and pressing both hands hard against her racing heart.
“No, don’t take him! My son!” she screamed out, the sheer terror of the nightmare still clinging to her throat.
Afonso leaned forward, catching her trembling hands in his. He tried to plaster on a mask of concern, attempting to drag her back to reality. “Calm down, darling. Just calm down,” he urged, forcing his tone to soften. “Ashton is fine. He’s sleeping soundly right down the hall.”
Penelope’s wild eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for an anchor. She saw the soft, familiar glow of the bedside lamp. She heard the distant, steady ticking of the wall clock. Finally, her rigid shoulders slumped.
“It was all a dream,” she whispered, her voice trembling like a fragile leaf.
Afonso leaned back against the headboard. He was entirely used to these episodes by now. He watched her run her shaking hands over her face, scrubbing away the remnants of her panic.
“The same dream again?” he asked. There was no sympathy there, only a cold mixture of weariness and resignation.
Penelope nodded, tears welling in her eyes as the memories of the nightmare refused to fade.
“I was in the hospital,” she began, her voice cracking in the quiet room. “I was about to give birth. My belly was so massive, Afonso, it felt like it was going to tear apart. I saw the first baby born. I held him in my arms, felt his tiny, warm body. It was our Ashton. Our perfect little prince.” She paused, closing her eyes tightly as a tear slipped down her cheek. “But I knew there was another.”
She took a shaky breath, the phantom pain clenching her heart all over again.
