Andrew stood in the living room of his old house. Sunlight streamed through from the backyard, bright enough to sting his eyes.
A soft nursery rhyme hummed in the background, filling his ears. He blinked, adjusting to the light, trying to make out who stood by the glass door.
It was Alice, his wife, holding Seamus by the hand.
The sight hit him like a blade. His memory of her had always been clear as yesterday, yet never enough.
Now she was here—Alice—in front of him. He stared at her for a long time, trying to remember the sound of her voice, soft but strong like waves rolling onto shore.
Her dark hair fell to her waist, her emerald eyes glinting just like Seamus's eyes.
Ah, his son. Everything about Seamus reminded Andrew of his mother. Sometimes it was painful just to look at him.
But this was only an illusion. A cruel one because he still remembered the day Alice died.
He drew the gun from his pocket and fired. The bullet tore through her, killing her again.
