When the bride’s veil lifted, my breath caught. Those eyes—so much like Emily’s—stared back at me. For a moment, I thought grief had finally broken me. No one else seemed shaken; Daniel beamed at his new wife, while Lily tugged my sleeve, whispering, “Daddy?”
I forced a smile for her, but inside, questions swirled. Could Emily have lived? Was this her twin—or just a stranger with her face? At the reception, I kept my distance until Lily pulled me forward.
“Hi, I’m Clara,” she said, her laugh softer, her smile familiar but not the same. Daniel, oblivious, clapped me on the back, marveling at fate’s coincidences. Later, Clara found me alone. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said gently. When I admitted she reminded me of someone, she nodded with quiet understanding. “Daniel told me about Emily. I’m sorry.”
Her presence hurt, but it also eased something inside me. Watching Clara and Daniel dance, I felt a shift—the first loosening of grief’s grip. When Lily dragged me to the floor, her laughter filled the air, and I realized: moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. It means finding joy again, even with shadows nearby. Five years after losing Emily, I finally felt hope return—enough to keep dancing, even when the music changed.
