It was a normal Tuesday night — the kind where nothing ever happens.
I was in my worn armchair, chamomile tea cooling beside me, scrolling Facebook with one hand while my golden retriever, Biscuit, snored at my feet.
At 48, my life was quiet. Predictable. Settled.
Not exciting, but mine.
Then a post stopped my thumb mid-scroll.
And my lungs forgot how to work.
A young woman’s face filled my screen.
She looked exactly like me.
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