My hands began shaking.
“What did she look like?”
Emma smiled.
“She looks like me.”
## The Story Became Stranger
I wanted to believe there was a simple explanation.
Maybe someone at school had the same name.
Maybe Emma misunderstood something.
Maybe another child resembled her.
But then she said:
“She told me she’s my twin.”
I felt dizzy.
“Emma, who told you that?”
“Lily.”
I stood up.
“Where is she?”
“At school.”
“What’s her last name?”
Emma frowned.
“I don’t know.”
“What’s her teacher’s name?”
She told me.
I recognized the teacher.
She was real.
The classroom was real.
Everything was real.
Except the child Emma described.
I called the school.
I asked whether there was another girl named Lily in the class.
The teacher said no.
I asked whether Emma had spent time with another child.
She said Emma had been friendly but hadn’t mentioned anyone unusual.
I hung up.
Daniel looked at me.
“What happened?”
I told him.
He went silent.
## That Night
Emma continued talking about Lily.
She described her as if she were completely ordinary.
“She likes drawing.”
“She doesn’t like peas.”
“She said she wants to sit beside me tomorrow.”
Then Emma asked:
“Why didn’t you pack her lunch today?”
I couldn’t answer.
That night, I barely slept.
I searched through old boxes.
I found the hospital paperwork.
Lily’s name was there.
Her birth.
Her death.
The date.
The medical records.
Everything I had tried not to read for years.
I sat on the floor surrounded by documents.
Then I found something I had forgotten.
A tiny photograph.
Not of Lily.
Of Emma.
Taken shortly after birth.
But there was something strange.
A nurse had written two initials on the back.
E and L.
I stared at them.
I couldn’t explain why.
## The Next Morning
The next morning, Emma insisted on packing two lunches.
I told her there was only one lunchbox.
She frowned.
“Then use the pink bag.”
The pink bag had belonged to Lily.
I had kept it in storage.
I hadn’t opened it in years.
I don’t know why I did it.
Maybe because I was curious.
Maybe because I was desperate.
Maybe because some part of me wanted to believe my daughter had somehow found a way to be remembered.
I packed two lunches.
Emma smiled.
“Thank you.”
Then she ran outside.
## The Teacher’s Question
That afternoon, the teacher called me.
“Can we talk?”
My stomach tightened.
“Is Emma okay?”
“Yes.”
“Did something happen?”
The teacher hesitated.
“Emma has been talking about another little girl.”
I closed my eyes.
“Lily?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly has she said?”
