The past did not knock.
It slipped in quietly, wearing a familiar face and an unfamiliar humility.
Lala first saw him on a Tuesday afternoon—the kind of afternoon that felt harmless, ordinary, undeserving of disruption. Layla was at preschool, Daniel was at work, and Lala had stepped into a café she used to visit years ago, back when life was simpler and love had not yet carved her so deeply.
She was stirring sugar into her tea when a voice spoke her name.
“Lala?”
The spoon stilled.
Her heart did not race at first. It dropped—as if gravity had suddenly remembered her.
She looked up.
And there he was.
A Face from Another Life
Ethan.
Time had altered him, but not erased him. His hair was shorter now, his eyes more careful, his posture less arrogant than memory painted. He looked…
