16
I wonder if anyone else can see my brain actually spinning in my head. I wonder if my eyes look at all unsteady, or if the smile frozen on my face is flickering in some way, so that any moment someone’s going to ask, “Are you having a mental breakdown, Miss Markham? Can we get you anything?”
I have seen this man in photos. He’s always younger, which makes sense, since HE DIED fifteen years ago.
But he didn’t die—not here. Here he’s lived long enough that his twin children actually know him—he’s not just stories and pictures to them, but a living, breathing father.
And his widow never remarried and had a child with her new husband because there is no new husband—this old one would do, and the two of them could make a third child together quite nicely, thank you.
I know it’s all poss
