THE GIRL ACROSS THE RAIN STREAKED WATER WHO HELD THE EXACT SAME WHITE BUNNY

The heavy iron poker rolled across the floorboards, coming to a rest against the baseboard heater. Ethan couldn't look away from his daughter. The light brown hair, the teal knit sweater, the small hands holding the stuffed white bunny—they all blurred for a terrifying second into the memory of a rainy afternoon in another lifetime. He backed away until his legs hit the edge of the sofa, and he sank down heavily onto the cushions.

You're talking nonsense, Lily, Ethan forced the words out, his voice shaking violently. We didn't live here. We moved from the city. We planted those oak trees in the yard ourselves.

Clara remained on the floor near the hallway, her breathing ragged as she clutched her temples. The dizziness was subsiding, leaving behind a sharp, unbearable clarity. She looked around the living room, noticing details she had never questioned before—the peculiar layout of the beams, the exact placement of the front door, the way the floor sloped slightly toward the northeast corner.

Ethan, look at the floorboards near the hearth, Clara whispered, her voice tight. Scrape the rug back. Do it now.

Ethan hesitated, then crawled across the floor on his hands and knees. He grabbed the edge of the braided wool rug and yanked it hard to the side. Beneath it, carved deeply into the weathered pine boards of the subfloor, were initials burned into the wood: E. & C. 2005.

He stared at the carving, his breath catching in his throat. His own initials. Carved with a soldering iron he had lost during the renovation he thought he had done just five years ago. A profound, crushing vertigo hit him, making the room spin on its axis. He pressed his palms flat against the wood, feeling the grain beneath his fingers, remembering the exact afternoon he and Clara had marked their territory into the brand-new frame of their dream home.

We built this house twice, Ethan whispered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Clara pulled herself up, leaning against the wall for support. She walked over to the front window and looked outside. The rain had stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving a heavy, unnatural silence hanging over the valley. The old wooden bridge across the creek was gone, vanished as if it had never been there at all. But standing on their front porch, looking through the screen door, was the small figure in the white dress.

The child raised her hand and tapped gently on the screen, once, twice, three times.