The next morning, I don't wait for Clara to come to me.
I go to her.
She's having coffee at the rooftop café near Holt Enterprises, dressed in her usual elegance white blouse, red lips, calm smile. She looks like she has no worries in the world.
I take a deep breath and walk straight to her table.
"Emma," she says, her tone sweet but her eyes sharp. "What a surprise."
I sit across from her. "Let's skip the act, Clara."
Her smile widens. "Act? Oh dear, I thought we were friends now."
My fingers curl around my cup. "You were at my wedding. The one that burned down."
She blinks slowly, then leans forward. "Your wedding? I've attended hundreds of weddings. You'll have to be more specific."
I stare at her. "The one where Emma Blackwood died."
For a moment, she freezes just a heartbeat before laughing softly. "That's an interesting story. But Emma Blackwood has been dead for five years."
I keep my eyes locked on hers. "And yet, here I am."
The air between us turns heavy.
People around us laugh and talk, but it all sounds far away.
Clara finally says, "If you truly believe you're her, then I must say you've done a wonderful job coming back from the dead."
"Don't play games with me," I say quietly. "I found this."
I place the silver pendant on the table. Her eyes flicker for a second, surprise, fear, then calm again.
"Ah," she says, reaching for it, "you found my old necklace. I thought it was lost that night."
"That night when you left the bride to burn?" I ask coldly.
Her smile fades. For the first time, she looks unsettled. "Careful, Emma. You're talking about things you don't understand."
"Then help me understand," I whisper. "Why were you there? Why didn't you help me?"
She leans back, crossing her legs. "Because some fires are meant to burn."
I feel my heart pound painfully against my ribs. "What do you mean?"
She shrugs. "Ask your husband. Oh, I'm sorry, why not this husband?" Her eyes gleam. "Ask the one you had before you died."
I stare at her, confused, my breath catching. "You knew him?"
She smiles. "Of course I did. Everyone did. Powerful men like him always think their secrets will stay buried. But fire has a way of bringing the truth out."
I can't take it anymore. I stand up, voice trembling. "What are you talking about, Clara?"
She looks up at me with cold amusement. "Maybe I'll tell you when you're ready to remember."
She slides something across the tab, le an envelope. "A gift. Consider it… a piece of your past."
Then she stands and walks away, leaving me there with shaking hands.
I open the envelope.
Inside is a photo old, burnt at the edges.
It's me.
Or rather, Emma Blackwood in my old wedding dress, standing beside a man whose face I can't fully see. The background is the same chapel that burned down.
But that's not what makes my stomach twist.
The date printed at the bottom of the photo is three days after my death.
I rush home, my mind spinning.
When I get inside, Adrian is in the living room, going through papers. He looks up, frowning when he sees my face.
"Emma, what happened?"
"Nothing," I say too quickly.
He stands, walking closer. "You're lying again."
I grip the photo in my hand. "Why do you have a file on Clara Holt?"
His eyes darken instantly. "Where did you see that?"
"So you do have one."
He doesn't answer.
"Adrian," I whisper, "who is she to you?"
He exhales slowly. "Someone I should have stayed away from."
That answer only makes my chest tighten. "Did you love her?"
He looks me straight in the eye. "No. But she knows things that could destroy both of us."
The room feels colder now. I step back, clutching the photo.
"What things?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "It's better if you don't know."
"Too late for that," I say, my voice breaking.
He takes a step closer, but I move away.
"I'm not the same woman you married, Adrian," I say quietly. "And maybe… I was never meant to be."
He frowns. "What are you saying?"
I open my hand and show him the photo.
His face goes pale. "Where did you get that?"
"Clara gave it to me."
He stares at it for a long moment, then whispers, "That's impossible."
My voice trembles. "Why does it exist, Adrian? Why am I in a photo taken after I died?"
He doesn't answer. His silence says everything.
I turn toward the stairs, but before I can walk away, he says softly, "Emma… maybe you shouldn't look for the past. It might find you first."
I stop, my heart pounding.
"Maybe I already did," I whisper, without turning back.
That night, I dream again.
The same fire.
The same screams.
But this time, I see something new: a woman standing beside the flames, holding hands with two men. One looks like Adrian. The other… I can't see his face.
They both whisper the same word.
"Remember."
I wake up with tears on my face and the photo still clutched in my hand.
The fire never died.
It just changed shape.