“Mark?”

The word slipped out before I could stop it, a ghost of a breath barely audible over the blood roaring in my ears.

He tilted his head, brows furrowed, those familiar gray eyes narrowing in confusion.

“I’m sorry?” he said, with a very polite smile.

The smile that ones made me tickle.

I stared. Beads of sweat were trailing down the side of my face. My hand still holding the crumpled handkerchief trembled.

How?

His face… Oh God, it's him. Same eyes, same jawline, the way his hair curled slightly at the ends when it was damp. The way he arched his brow when he's deep in thought.

“You okay?” he asked, frowning now, stepping closer like I might pass out.

I took a step back. Shaken to the core.

“I thought you said… Mark?” he added, with a half-smile. “Sorry. I’m not Mark. I’m Alex.”

He said it like it was a joke. Like maybe I was confusing him with an ex or some long-lost lover.

“I’m sorry about your dress,” he added, gesturing to my chest. Giving me a tight, apologetic nod, he turned on his heel, and walked off, just like that.

Gone. Like a ghost.

I didn’t even move. Couldn’t.

My coffee-soaked shirt clung to my chest, cold now. My hands were shaking.

I would have assumed it was all a dream, but my soaked dress is evidence that it all happened, and that I wasn't dreaming.

But how is it possible?

It's just not possible.

I buried Mark. I fucking buried him, poured the sand over his grave, shovel by shovel as the rain drenched me.

I slammed the door behind me the moment I got home, my heart still hammering. It was a miracle I was able to walk all the way to my house without passing out.

Yanking open the drawer in my hallway table, I dug through old receipts, expired makeup, and a tangle of charger cords, until I found it.

The photo album.

I hadn’t touched it in months. Not since before the memorial. But now, I flipped through page after page, hands moving faster, until I found it.

Mark. Smiling. Standing beside me. One hand around my waist, the other holding a champagne glass. His gray eyes gleamed under the party lights.

Exactly the same.

The same feature. Same dimple. Same bone structure. Even the tilt of his smile.

No. No, no, no.

I tossed the album onto the floor like it had burned me and staggered back, staring at it.

Like maybe the picture would shift and tell me I was wrong.

I wasn’t.

He looked too much like him, there's no such thing as coincidence in this case.

My panic swelled. I couldn’t breathe.

He was dead.

I’d watched him choke on his own blood. Watched his body go limp. I’d wrapped him in plastic myself, dragged him to the damn forest, and dumped him six feet under with my bare hands.

The grave was real.

I remember the cold. The stench of death was clinging to my clothes. I even remembered the song I hummed to myself as I filled the dirt over him, something I had heard on the radio earlier that day as the rain drenched me.

You don’t forget something like that.

So what the hell is this?

A doppelgänger? A brother I never knew about? Or was I losing my fucking mind?

I didn’t sleep that night.

How could I?

The next morning, I walked into Mira’s like nothing had happened. Same time. Same seat. Same coffee order.

I needed to see him again.

He wasn’t there.

I waited. Sipped slowly. Tapped my nails on the wood. Watched the door as every single person got in and got out, until Mira finally noticed.

“Everything okay?” she asked, wiping her hands on a towel.

I gave her my most harmless smile. “Hey, that guy from yesterday… the one I bumped into?”

She blinked, surprised. “Alex?”

My pulse kicked. “Yeah. Alex. He comes here often?”

She shrugged. “Past couple weeks, yeah. He’s new around here.”

“New?”

“Moved here maybe a month ago. Leaves somewhere near Capitol Hill, I think. Rents a little apartment. He’s… quiet. Don't talk much.”

Of course, he doesn’t.

I gave her a warm smile, not the flirtatious ones I usually give her. “Thanks.”

She turned back to the counter. And I continued to sip my coffee.

At least I know he was real, and I wasn't the only one who had seen him.

After leaving Mira's, I didn’t go home.

I followed the direction Mira had mentioned, walking actually along the sidewalks like I was taking a stroll, until I found him.

Mark… or Alex as he claimed.

He was walking into a little corner store.

Same gait. Same posture. Same hands, tucked into the pockets of his coat.

I waited outside until he came back out, groceries in hand. Then I tailed him.

He didn’t notice.

He walked a few blocks up, then turned left onto a quieter street lined with old trees and uneven sidewalks. A small brick building sat just ahead, four stories tall. He stepped inside.

I watched him walk past the entrance, heart hammering, as I stood across the street.

The building looked like it hadn’t been updated in decades. No doorman. No cameras. Easy enough to slip into, if I wanted.

Not tonight, though.

I waited until the lights flicked on in a second-floor window. His silhouette appeared behind the blinds, tall, lean, he paced to and fro, probably arranging the stuff he had purchased.

I took out my phone and snapped a picture of him.

Then another.

Zooming in to get a closer look. It was Mark.

It had to be him.

*********************

I spent the next day digging.

Social media? Nothing.

LinkedIn? No job history.

No Facebook. No Instagram. Barely a digital footprint at all.

Even his rental record was thin, just a first name and a prepaid bank card.

No family connections. No school info. No employment trail.

It was like he’d just… appeared.

People didn’t live like that.

Not unless they had something to hide.

Not unless they were hiding from something.

And I knew Mark. Knew the way he planned, how careful he was. How he always talked about the perfect crime, the kind no one would ever suspect, if you just disappeared well enough.

So maybe that’s what he did.

Maybe he faked his own death… before I could finish it.

Or maybe…

Maybe he survived.

And now he’s come back for me, he probably already has a plan cooking up.

I just didn't know what to think at this point.

I stared at the photo on my phone one more time. His profile in the window, backlit by the yellow glow of a lamp.

The resemblance wasn’t just eerie.

It was unmistakable.

I zoomed in on his eyes.

Still gray.

Still him.

This time, I wasn’t imagining it.

This time, I’d make damn sure I knew who, or what he really was.

And if he was lying, or if he was here to get his revenge on me…

Well…

I buried him once.

I could do it again.