That Sunday, the park was alive with laughter and the rustle of leaves. Stefan and I had our ritual—ice cream cones, chasing pigeons, watching the carousel spin.
Then he saw the boy.
Brown curls, the same nose, the same habit of biting his lip when he concentrated. And that birthmark—an identical smudge on the chin.
I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs.
The doctors had been certain. The second boy had died. So why was this child sitting there, alive, breathing, smiling?
Stefan’s grip slipped from mine. He ran to the swing before I could stop him.
The two boys stared at each other, as if recognizing something deeper than sight. Then the boy extended his hand. Stefan took it. Their smiles mirrored each other, two halves of the same whole.
I forced myself to move, my legs trembling. Beside the boy stood a woman. Her hair was tied back, her coat worn thin. When she turned to me, recognition slammed into my chest.
It was Clara.
Clara had been in the same maternity ward as me. I remembered her face, pale and exhausted, her cries echoing down the corridor. We had spoken briefly, two women bound by pain and hope.
But I hadn’t seen her since that night.
“Clara?” My voice cracked.
She looked at me, startled. “Lana.”
The world seemed to tilt again.
“This boy…” I whispered, pointing at the child who looked so much like Stefan. “Who is he?”
Clara’s lips trembled. “He’s mine.”
