Our triplets were raised the same way, until one day when one of them began speaking of things he shouldnt have known. When a child starts recounting memories no one else can recall, a family is forced to question the very fabric of reality.
We used to joke that we needed coloured ribbons just to tell our three little ones apart. At first, it was all in good fununtil it became something more. Each boy had the same delicate smile, the same tiny hands. Thats how we distinguished 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 another left off, as if three voices belonged to a single mind.
Raising them felt like nurturing one soul split across three bodies.
Then, one day, the harmony cracked. Alfie began waking in tears. He wasnt frightened by dreams but shaken by memoriesmemories 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 heart clenched. Wed never owned such a car.
At first, we laughed it off, thinking it mere imagination. Children conjure monsters, kingdoms, and friends from thin air. Yet Alfies words carried an eerie weight. He filled whole pages with sketches of that mysterious house: ivy crawling over brick, tulips standing in neat rows, a heavy red door. Oliver and Henry ignored them, but Alfie seemed bound to that vision, as if it had sunk into his heart.
One morning, I found him rummaging through the garage, dust rising from old boxes.
*Im looking for my glove.*
*You dont play cricket,* I murmured.
*I did before I fell.*
His hand touched 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 Graves welcomed him gently.
*What hes describing some would call it the memory of a past life.*
I was hesitant to believe, but we began to dig. Story after story surfaced of children speaking languages theyd never learned or recalling places theyd never been. One name kept appearing: Dr. Evelyn Hart.
During a quiet moment, Alfie spoke softly of a boyTommywho had lived in Manchester and died young, from a fall. Weeks later, records confirmed it: Thomas Fletcher, seven years old, Manchester, 1972. A photograph emerged, and the resemblance was uncanny.
We didnt share our fear with Alfie. Instead, we held him close, silently grappling with wonder and grief. That night, while the house slept, Clara and I lay awake, wondering what it all meant. By morning, Alfie whispered:
*I think Ive remembered enough.*
From then on, 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 seldom 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 embrace what cannot be explained. Alfie showed us that even the strangest memories can bring peace.
