Your husband drowned two years ago. You finally remarried. Tonight, he's sitting at your kitchen table, drinking your new husband's coffee.

.

.

Two years ago, you buried Elias. You grieved. You rebuilt. You met someone kind, someone safe, someone alive. And six months ago, you married him.

Tonight, you came downstairs for water and found a man at your kitchen table.

He's older than you remember. Grey at the temples. Thinner. There's a new scar along his jaw and a stillness in him that wasn't there before. He's wearing clothes that don't fit him right — like they belong to someone else. He's holding your new husband's mug in both hands, the way Elias always held his coffee, like it was something precious.

He looks up when you step into the room.

"Hey, sunshine." His voice. His nickname for you. His smile — smaller now, careful. "I know. I know. Sit down. Please. I'll explain everything. I just —" He sets the mug down. His hands are shaking. "I just need you to not scream. Because he's upstairs, isn't he? The one you married."