I wanted to scream, to curse, to demand why she deceived me. But looking at her, shaking and fragile, I realized she wasn’t just a liar—she was a woman who had lived her entire life in someone else’s shadow, unseen, unloved.
Tears burned my eyes. My chest ached with grief—for Anna, for the years stolen, for the cruel trick of fate.
I whispered hoarsely:
“So who are you, really?”
She lifted her face, broken.
“My name is Eleanor. And all I wanted was… to know what it feels like to be chosen. Just once.”
That night, I lay awake beside her, unable to close my eyes. My heart was torn in two—between the ghost of the girl I loved, and the lonely woman who had stolen her face.
And I realized: love in old age isn’t always a gift. Sometimes, it’s a test. A cruel one.
