I married my patient knowing she had only three days left to live — but after her funeral, her sister approached me with a small box and whispered, “She made me promise not to give you this until she was gone.

And now, twenty-three years later, her photograph was inside my dead wife’s box.

I looked at Rebecca.

“Why does Alicia have a picture of Ellie?”

Rebecca’s lips trembled.

“Because Alicia was Ellie.”

I stared at her.

“No. That’s impossible.”

“Her full name was Alicia Eleanor. When she was little, everyone called her Ellie.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Rebecca explained that after Alicia’s childhood illness, their family had moved to another state. My parents had mistakenly believed she hadn’t survived.

“But why didn’t she tell me?” I asked.

Rebecca wiped her eyes.

“She was going to. Then she found out how little time she had.”

I remembered Alicia’s endless questions about my childhood.

The way she smiled when I mentioned my hometown.

The strange sadness in her eyes when I talked about being seven.

She had recognized me.

All along.

“But why marry me?” I whispered.