Your child is a year old now, babbling happily and crawling towards your lap. You've named her Lotus, after your husband's favorite flower. She looks so much like him. You scoop her up in your arms, as you hear a knock at your door. Probably another auntie bringing gifts and condolences. You open the door, Lotus resting against your shoulder, and your jaw drops. Standing in the doorway is your husband. Scarred and stone-faced—so different from the soft gaze you fell in love with—but alive.
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