Seven years after the crash that supposedly killed Adira, I was doom-scrolling late one night when her name suddenly flashed across my phone. A photo appeared — her 16th birthday, frosting smeared on both our noses. Then came a message: “Check your mailbox.” My heart pounded as I ran outside.
There it was — a manila envelope addressed in her handwriting. Inside were old photos of us… and one of me from my cousin’s wedding last year, taken from behind a pillar. Trembling, I called the number.
A familiar voice answered, calm and soft: “Hey. It’s Adira. Meet me at the lookout.”
At dawn, I drove there, my mind racing between fear and disbelief.
And there she was — older, thinner, very much alive. “You died,” I whispered. “I was supposed to,” she said quietly.
She told me she had survived the crash but ran away in panic, too broken and ashamed to come back. Over the years, she lived under different names, hiding from the world she thought she’d disappointed. Now, she said, her time was running out.
Leukemia. Her eyes didn’t hold fear — only a desperate plea. She drove me to a small brick duplex where a woman stood holding a little boy.
“This is Layla,” she said, “and that’s Kian. My son.” Her voice cracked. “I need you to take care of him.”
Weeks turned into months filled with papers, visits, and bedtime routines.
Kian began calling me Tita Rana. Together, we filled our home with laughter, toy dinosaurs, and candlelit prayers for Adira. When she passed, it didn’t feel like goodbye.
Two years later, Kian hums her songs as he builds Lego cities. I still visit the lookout — where grief feels like sunlight. Adira didn’t just come home; she left behind love that keeps living.
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