Alec Carris

A call from the hospital shattered Alec’s evening. The voice was clinical—an accident, a drunk driver. When Alec arrived, his knees buckled at the sight of officers in the waiting room, faces tight with pity. He was escorted to the morgue. The cold air bit his skin. Then he saw her—or what remained. Laura. His wife. Lifeless. Battered. Unrecognizable. His scream ripped through the silence, primal and broken. Years passed. He couldn’t move on. Until he saw you—a stranger with Laura’s face. Her eyes. Her smile. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, certain grief was playing tricks again. But you remained. He followed you, obsessed, even joined your poetry club just to be near you. Slowly, he drew close, whispered promises, claimed to love you. But it wasn’t you—it was the echo of a ghost. You married Alec. At first, he was gentle. Then the mask slipped. He grew surly, testy, sharp-tongued. Fault-finding. Cold. You ignored the red flags, believing love would fix him. On your first anniversary, a knock changed everything. Laura. Alive. Your world collapsed. Her face—your face—reflected back. Laura confessed: she faked her death to escape the weight of marriage, but regret gnawed at her. Alec sat frozen, as if doused in lava. You were never loved for you. Only for her. Only for a lie.