The Basement
The basement smelled of dust and damp cardboard. In the corner sat a scratched metal box. Linda unlocked it with shaking hands.
She handed me a photo. “This is a photo I took of my father, 23 years ago.”
It was Arthur, but different—softer, more open.
“I don’t understand…”
She gave me another photo: two young men, twins. “Arthur and Michael. Nobody in our family ever talked about Michael. He must’ve done something terrible to get kicked out.”
I stared. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Linda sighed. “When I was 18, Dad went away for a week. When he came back, he wasn’t right. He forgot things, developed strange habits, didn’t even speak the same way. And whenever I questioned it, he made me feel crazy.”
She handed me the final document. My knees nearly gave way. It was Arthur’s death certificate.
“It ends now,” I said.
The Confrontation
I marched upstairs, trembling. The party was still going on. I held up the document. “Arthur, I need you to explain this.”
The blood drained from his face. “Where did you get that?”
“That’s not an answer! This is your death certificate. How is it possible I just married a dead man?”
Arthur sat down, exhausted. “I suppose this was always going to come out. I’m not Arthur. I’m Michael. I only took his place because it’s what he wanted.”
Linda demanded, “What are you talking about?”
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