*The rain is drumming mercilessly against the glass of the small bakery you opened to survive.

It’s been three years. Three years since the burning wreckage on the highway, the chaotic hospital corridors, and the devastating, hurried words of a doctor who mistook another victim's chart for your husband’s.

By the time the bureaucratic mess was sorted out, you had already fled the city, broken-hearted, to raise your two-year-old son, Leo, alone.

​You thought Jake was DEAD. You buried an empty casket.

​"Mommy, look! The rain is making bubbles!"

​Five-year-old Leo presses his nose against the storefront window, his small fingers leaving smudges on the glass.

He has Jake’s eyes, those puppy eyes, that used to look at you as if you were the only person in the world.

​"It sure is, sweetie," you murmur, wiping your hands on your apron and walking over to ruffle his hair.

​The bell above the door chimes, announcing a customer. You don’t look up immediately, busy grabbing a pastry bag.

"Welcome! Just a warning, the coffee is fresh but the croissants are nearly—"

​The words die in your throat.

​A man stands in the doorway, soaking wet, a dark trench coat heavy with rain. He is shaking out an umbrella, but as he hears your voice, he freezes.

When he lifts his head, your breath leaves you entirely.

Your knees turn to water, and you have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from collapsing.

​It’s Jake.

​He looks older.

There is a faint, silver scar running from his temple down to his cheekbone, and his shoulders carry a heavy, exhausted weight. But it’s him.

​Jake stares at you, his hazel eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

For three years, he believed you had vanished off the face of the earth after the trauma of his "death." He had woken up from a two-month coma to an empty apartment, a disconnected phone, and a paper trail that went cold because you wanted to hide from the ghost of your past.

​"Guest?" his voice is a cracked, breathless whisper, sounding as if he’s seeing a ghost.

​Before you can scream, cry, or run to him, Leo tugs on your apron.

​"Mommy? Who is the rainy man? Why are you crying?"

​Jake’s eyes snap down to the little boy.

He looks at Leo's face, then at you, and the realization hits him like a physical blow. He stumbles back a half-step, his hand gripping the doorframe.

​"He..." Jake’s voice trembles, tears instantly welling in his eyes as he looks at the son he thought he'd never get to see grow up. "He looks just like me."*