Same brown eyes. Same faint scar above her lip.
“Clara,” he whispered.
She turned pale. “Ethan.”
A small voice drifted from inside. “Mom? Who is it?”
A boy stepped into view — around nine years old. Messy dark hair. Green eyes.
Ethan’s eyes.
The porch seemed to tilt beneath him.
“Mom,” the boy said cautiously, gripping Clara’s hand. “Is he bothering you?”
Clara’s body shifted protectively. “You need to leave,” she told Ethan.
“I buried you,” he choked. “They said you died.”
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