His name, James Whitmore, was known in every business circle in Manhattan.

James felt the air grow heavy around him, pressing down like the weight of years he thought he had left behind. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. His throat was dry, his hands trembling under the table. Emily stared between him and the waitress, her innocent eyes filled with wonder.

The woman smiled politely, pen poised above the page. “Sir?” she prompted.

It wasn’t Evelyn. He knew that. Evelyn was gone. He had stood by her grave, lowered into the earth. Yet every fiber of his being screamed that the woman before him was more than a stranger.

“I—coffee,” James stammered. “And a grilled cheese for her.” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

The waitress nodded, jotting quickly. “Of course. I’ll be right back.” She turned away, moving toward the kitchen with that same gentle sway Evelyn had carried through their home years ago.

James leaned back, his chest heaving. Emily tugged on his sleeve again. “Daddy, it’s Mommy. I know it is.”

He shook his head, fighting back tears. “It can’t be, sweetheart. Mommy’s…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish.

But when the woman returned with two glasses of water, she set one in front of Emily and crouched slightly to meet her eyes. “You’re a little artist, aren’t you?” she said warmly, nodding toward Emily’s doodles.

Emily grinned, holding up her napkin. “It’s a pumpkin! Do you like it?”

The waitress’s laugh rang out — soft, melodic, achingly familiar. James’s heart clenched so tightly he thought he might collapse.

Then her eyes lifted to his, and for a split second, something flickered across her face. Recognition. Confusion. Maybe even fear.

James’s pulse roared in his ears. He couldn’t sit still any longer. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice lower now, trembling with an edge of desperation. “Have we met before?”

The woman straightened, her smile faltering just enough to reveal a crack in her composure. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then forced another polite grin. “I don’t think so, sir. I’ve only ever lived here, in Bramble Creek.”

Her words were steady, but her hands betrayed her, tightening on the tray she carried.

James felt the world tilt. Every rational thought told him to let it go — she was a stranger, a coincidence, nothing more. But his soul screamed otherwise.

“Your name,” he pressed, his voice hoarse. “Please… what’s your name?”

The woman hesitated, her green eyes locked on his. Then, after a long pause, she answered.

“My name is Anna.”

Emily beamed, clapping her hands. “Anna! That’s Mommy’s middle name!”

James’s vision blurred. He gripped the edge of the table, caught between hope and madness. The diner’s hum faded, replaced by the thunder of his own heartbeat.

Anna — or whoever she was — quickly excused herself, retreating behind the counter. But James could see the way her shoulders trembled, the way she avoided his gaze.

He leaned toward Emily, whispering, “Stay here, sweetheart.” Then he rose, following the woman toward the back hallway that led to the kitchen.

When she realized he was behind her, she stopped. Slowly, she turned, her eyes glistening in the dim light. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then, in a voice barely audible, she whispered,

“James…”

The sound of his name from her lips shattered the world he thought he knew.

And in that instant, as the small diner of Bramble Creek held its breath, James Whitmore realized his life was about to change forever.