It was an ordinary evening — one of those quiet walks home when life feels heavy and the world seems far away. My mind was full of thoughts about bills and work, and I was too tired to notice much around me. Then, as I turned the corner into the town square, I heard something that made me stop in my tracks.
A voice. Gentle, clear, and strangely familiar.
The young woman standing across the square was singing a melody I hadn’t heard in seventeen years — a lullaby I had written myself for my daughter, Lily, before she disappeared when she was five. No one else in the world should have known that song. Yet there it was, echoing softly through the air.
I froze. The sound pulled me backward through time — to her laughter, her tiny hands clapping in rhythm, her bright smile under the afternoon sun.
The singer looked familiar, though I couldn’t explain why. She had dark hair that caught the light and a dimple on her left cheek — just like my wife, Cynthia. My heart began to race. Logic told me it was impossible, but love doesn’t always listen to reason.
When she finished, the crowd applauded. She smiled and thanked them before her eyes found mine. Her expression shifted, uncertain but curious.
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