**Diary Entry**
We used to joke that our triplets were so alike, we needed coloured ribbons just to tell them apart. At first, it was all in good fununtil it wasnt. Each boy had the same delicate smile, the same tiny hands. Thats how we distinguished them: Oliver with the navy-blue ribbon, William with the red, and Henry with the turquoise. Their words often intertwined, 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 into three bodies.
Then, one day, the harmony shattered. Henry began waking in tears. Not from nightmares, but from memoriesmemories none of us could claim.
*”Do you remember the house with the red shutters?”*
Wed never lived in such a place.
*”Wheres Mrs. Whitby? She always had peppermints.”*
No one by that name had ever been part of our lives.
*”Dads car the green one with the broken boot?”*
My chest tightened. Wed never owned a car like that.
At first, I laughed it off, assuming it was just childish imagination. Children invent monsters, kingdoms, and imaginary friends out of thin air. But Henrys words carried an eerie weight. He filled entire pages with sketches of that mysterious house: ivy climbing brick walls, neat rows of roses, a heavy red door. Oliver and William ignored them, but Henry seemed bound to the vision, as if it had gripped his heart.
One morning, I found him rummaging through the garage, dust rising from old boxes.
*”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. Harris, their paediatrician, referred us to a specialist in unusual memory patterns. Dr. Eleanor Shaw welcomed him gently.
*”What hes describing some might call it a past-life memory.”*
I was sceptical, but I began researching. Story after story emerged of children speaking languages theyd never learned or recalling places theyd never been. One name kept appearing: Dr. Sarah Finch.
During a quiet moment, Henry softly spoke of a boyTommywhod lived in Manchester and died young after a fall. Weeks later, records confirmed: Thomas Wright, age seven, Manchester, 1978. A photograph surfaced, and the resemblance was chilling.
We didnt share our fear with Henry. Instead, we held him close, silently wrestling with wonder and grief. That night, as the house slept, Emily and I lay awake, wondering what it all meant. By morning, Henry whispered:
*”I think Ive remembered enough.”*
From that moment, the drawings stopped. The strange memories faded, replaced by games, laughter, and stories only a child could conjure. Months later, an unexplained letter arrivedinside, a photo of a house with a red door, signed *”Mrs. Whitby.”* Henry studied it with a faint smile:
*”Thats where I left my ball.”*
Now, at fifteen, Henry 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 cant be explained. Henry showed us that even the strangest memories can bring peace.
