My wife Charlotte passed away five years ago. I raised our daughter Sophie alone. We attended my best mate Williams wedding, a celebration of fresh beginnings.
The grand hall shimmered under golden chandeliers, casting a soft glow over the sea of white chairs. Sophie squeezed my hand as we slipped into our seats. At ten, she had her mothers bright green eyes and the same thoughtful furrow between her brows when she was curious. For half a decade, it had just been ussince Charlottes car crash. Five years of grief, of piecing life back together. Tonight was meant to be joyful. William, my oldest friend, had finally found love.
Hed been my anchor when Charlotte died. Helped me move into the smaller terrace house in Manchester, fixed the dodgy boiler, minded Sophie when I pulled late shifts at the hospital. More brother than friend. When he announced his engagement, I was genuinely happy for him.
The ceremony began with a gentle piano piece. The bride glided down the aisle, her face veiled. Sophie nestled against my arm, whispering how beautiful the gown was. I smiled, but a cold prickle crept up my spine. The way the bride movedthe slope of her shoulders, the rhythm of her stepswas unnervingly familiar.
Then William lifted the veil.
My breath vanished. The room tilted. Because staring back at me was Charlotte. My wife. The woman Id buried.
I couldnt move. The applause, the vicars words, the rustle of silknone of it reached me. Only her. Charlottes face, her smile, her eyes.
Daddy, Sophie tugged my sleeve, voice small. Whys Mummy marrying Uncle Will?
My throat closed. The programme crumpled in my shaking hands.
It couldnt be. Id seen the wreck. Identified her body. Stood at her grave. Yet here she was, clad in white, clasping Williams hands.
The hall pressed in. Guests murmured, darting glances my way. Was I mad? Or was the impossible standing before me?
I wanted to shout. To stop this. But Sophies grip anchored me. I stayed silent as vows were exchanged, each word cutting deeper.
When they were pronounced husband and wife, nausea surged. The crowd cheered. I sat rigid, heart hammering.
At the reception, I avoided the top table, hovering near the bar, distracting Sophie with lemonade and cake while my gaze never left them. Up close, the resemblance was worse. The bride laughedCharlottes laugh, but slightly lower, measured.
I finally asked a bridesmaid her name.
Eleanor, she beamed. Eleanor Hart. Will met her in Bristol, I think.
Eleanor. Not Charlotte. But why did she look identical?
Later, William found me on the terrace. James, you alright? Youve been quiet.
I swallowed the storm inside. Shes the spitting image of Charlotte.
He frowned. Noticed that too, when we met. But Eleanors her own person, mate. You know that.
I clenched my jaw. Does Sophie?
Shes confused. I expected she might be. He gripped my shoulder. Weve been through hell, you and I. Id never hurt you. Give it time.
Time didnt help. When Eleanor knelt to greet Sophie, her voice warm, Sophie blinked up. You sound like Mummy.
Eleanor stiffened, then smiled. Thats kind of you.
The flicker in her eyes haunted me. Something wasnt right.
Weeks passed in sleepless torment. I scoured old photos, comparing every detailthe same cheekbones, the same faint scar above her brow. Too exact for chance.
I hired a private investigator. The records came back clean. Eleanor Hart, born in Liverpool, 1988. No link to Charlotte.
Still, I couldnt let it go. At dinner at theirs, I cornered Eleanor in the kitchen.
Who are you really? My voice was low, unsteady.
She tensed. James, Ive told you
No. Youve got Charlottes scar, her smile. Dont tell me this is nothing.
Her expression wavered. For a second, I thought she might break. Instead, she murmured, Grief does strange things. Maybe youre seeing what you need to.
I left more unsettled than ever.
The final straw came when Sophie woke crying. Eleanor was in my dream, she sobbed. She tucked me in like Mummy did. Her small hands clutched mine. Daddy, I think Mummys back.
I couldnt let her live like this.
A week later, I confronted William. Did you know? Did you ever question if she could be Charlotte?
His face darkened. James, stop this. Charlottes gone. Eleanors my wife. Youre tearing yourself apart.
Then Eleanor stepped in. She looked between us, hesitated, and finally whispered:
Theres something I havent told either of you.
The air stilled. Sophie hovered in the doorway, wide-eyed, as Eleanor took a shaky breath.
Im not Charlotte, she said slowly. But I knew her. Better than you think.
The floor dropped beneath me. And I realised the story of Charlottes deathand the life she might have lived beyond uswas only just beginning.
