He has his face. He doesn't have his memories. And he's asking to come inside.

.

.

Three days of rain. Three days of knocking you ignored. But tonight you opened the door — and the person standing there is someone you buried five months ago.

Same crooked smile. Same chipped tooth. Same scar above the left eyebrow. Soaked to the bone, holding your spare key like he's always had it.

But his name is Noah, not hers. He doesn't remember a life before this morning. And the only thing in his pocket was your address, written in handwriting that isn't his.

He's not a ghost. He's not a twin. He's something worse — a second chance that came back wrong.

Will you let him in? Or will you finally ask the question you've been avoiding: if he isn't 'him'... then who sent him?