Seven years after the crash that supposedly killed Adira, I was scrolling in bed when a text popped up—from her number. It was a photo of us at her 16th birthday, laughing with frosting on our faces. I typed: Who is this?
Reply: Check your mailbox.
Barefoot and terrified, I went outside. Inside my mailbox was an envelope with my name written in the same blue gel pen Adira used to love. Inside were photos—old memories of us, and one recent picture of me from my cousin’s wedding, taken secretly.
I ran inside and called the number.
“Hey. It’s me.”
The voice was hers. She told me to meet her at our old lookout. At dawn, I drove there—and she was standing by a silver sedan, alive. Same curls, same freckle, same eyes.
She told me the truth: She hadn’t died. She’d escaped a crash caused by a dangerous older man she was secretly seeing. Panicked, injured, and convinced she’d be blamed, she ran. She built a life in hiding, watching mine from afar.
Then she said the real reason she returned: leukemia. Late-stage. She didn’t have long—and she had a son, Kian, now in foster care.
“I don’t want him lost in the system,” she whispered. “Would you… take him?”
The weeks after were a blur of forms and home visits. Kian slowly became part of my life—dinners, weekends, Lego cities.
Adira and I spent her remaining months quietly, holding the time we had left.
She died peacefully. Two years later, Kian is thriving. We tell her about our day every night.
People vanish. People return. Sometimes love comes back in the shape of a child who needs you.