I Buried My First Love After He Died in a Fire 30 Years Ago – I Mourned Him Until I Realized Who My New Neighbor Was
He lifted a basket. “These muffins are for you so you don’t complain to the HOA if I forget to mow the lawn.”
I tried to laugh like a normal neighbor.
Then his sleeve slid back.
The skin along his wrist and forearm wasn’t the same texture as the rest of him. It was shiny in places, tight in others — grafted.
And on the inside of his forearm, half-hidden beneath it, was a distorted scar — like melted ink.
A figure-eight. An infinity symbol that had been through suffering.
My throat closed.
Then his sleeve slid back.
I didn’t mean to speak; I didn’t mean to say his name like a prayer.
“Gabe?”
His smile faded.
“You weren’t supposed to recognize me, Sammie,” he said. “But you deserve truth, huh?”
“Gabe, how are you here?”
His voice broke. “That fire, 30 years ago, wasn’t an accident.”
I unlatched the door and stepped aside.
“Come in,” I said.
His smile faded.
**
We sat at my kitchen table like strangers who shared a secret neither of us understood yet. I poured coffee out of habit.
He kept staring at his hands.
“I don’t even know where to start,” he said.
“Start with the fire,” I replied. “Start with why we buried you.”
His jaw tightened. He nodded once.
“It wasn’t an accident.”
The words landed heavy in the room.
“Start with the fire.”
“What do you mean it wasn’t an accident?” My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. “The report —”
“My mother controlled the report.” He swallowed. “The fireplace story. Dental records. All of it…They wanted me to get away from you, Sammie. They said you were beneath us.”
I shook my head slowly. “You’re telling me that they faked your death?”
“Yes.”
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