corner. Great coffee, terrible music.”
So I went.
The café was crowded and warm—chalkboard menu, mismatched chairs, the smell of coffee and sugar. I stood in line, staring at the menu without really reading it.
Then I heard a woman’s voice at the counter. Ordering a latte. Calm, a little raspy. The rhythm of it hit me.
I looked up.
A woman stood at the counter, gray hair twisted up. Same height. Same posture. She turned—and we locked eyes.
For a moment, I didn’t feel like an old woman in a café. I felt like I’d stepped out of myself and was looking back.
I was staring at my own face.
I walked toward her. My fingers went cold.
She whispered, “Oh my God.”
My mouth moved before my brain caught up. “Ella?” I choked out.
“My name is Margaret.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I… no,” she said. “My name is Margaret.”
I jerked my hand back. “I’m sorry,” I blurted. “My twin sister’s name was Ella. She disappeared when we were five. I’ve never seen anyone who looks like me like this. I know I sound crazy.”
