Our triplets were raised the same way, until the day one of them began speaking of things he should never have known. When a child starts recounting memories no one else can recall, a family is forced to question the very fabric of their reality.
We used to joke that we needed coloured ribbons just to tell our three little ones apart. At first, it was only a jestuntil it became something more. Each boy wore the same delicate smile, the same small hands. That was how we knew them: Oliver with his navy-blue ribbon, Henry with the red, and Alfie with the turquoise. Their words often tangled together, one picking up where the other left off, as if three voices belonged to a single mind. Raising them felt like nurturing one soul split between three bodies.
Then, one day, the harmony fractured. Alfie began waking in tears. He wasnt frightened by dreams but shaken by memoriesones none of us could claim.
*Do you remember the house with the red shutters?*
We had never lived in such a place.
*Wheres Mrs. Whitmore? She always had peppermints.*
No one by that name had ever crossed our path.
*Dads car the green one with the broken boot?*
My chest tightened. We had never owned such a car.
At first, we laughed, dismissing it as imagination. Children invent monsters, kingdoms, and friends from nothing. Yet Alfies words carried an odd weight. He filled pages with sketches of that mysterious house: ivy climbing brick walls, tulips standing in neat rows, a heavy red door. Oliver and Henry paid no mind, but Alfie seemed bound to the vision, as if his heart were caught in it.
One morning, I found him rummaging through the garage, dust rising from old boxes.
*Im looking for my mitt.*
*You dont play cricket,* I murmured.
*I did before I fell.*
His hand brushed the back of his neck. A memory of pain, not a dream.
We sought answers. Dr. Whitaker, their paediatrician, referred us to a specialist in unusual memory patterns. Dr. Eleanor Hayes met him with gentle patience.
*What he describes some might call it the memory of a past life.*
I hesitated to believe, but we began to research. Story after story emerged of children speaking languages theyd never learned or recalling places theyd never been. One name surfaced often: Dr. Margaret Lane.
During a quiet moment, Alfie spoke softly of a boyThomaswho had lived in Manchester and died young from a fall. Weeks later, records confirmed it: Thomas Wright, seven years old, Manchester, 1979. A photograph surfaced, and the resemblance was uncanny.
We never shared our fear with Alfie. Instead, we held him close, silently wrestling with wonder and grief. That night, while the house slept, Claire and I lay awake, whispering of what it might mean. By morning, Alfie murmured:
*I think Ive remembered enough.*
From that moment, the drawings stopped. The strange memories faded, replaced by games, laughter, and tales only a child could invent. Months later, an unmarked letter arrivedinside, a photograph of a house with a red door, signed *Mrs. Whitmore.* Alfie studied it with a faint smile:
*Thats where I left my ball.*
Now, at fifteen, Alfie is quiet and thoughtful. He rarely speaks of the boy he once described, but weve learned something unshakable: some children arrive with stories already written. Our duty is to listen, to love, and to accept what cannot be explained. Alfie showed us that even the strangest memories can bring peace.
