I married my patient knowing she had only three days left to live — but after her funeral, her sister approached me with a small box and whispered, “She made me promise not to give you this until she was gone.

We became inseparable.

We played games, shared our desserts, and promised we would always be friends.

One afternoon, Ellie asked me something I had never forgotten.

“Lucas, when we grow up, will you marry me?”

I laughed.

“Only if you stop stealing my pudding.”

She raised her little hand.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

A few days later, Ellie disappeared from the hospital.

When I asked where she had gone, my mother hugged me and said Ellie had passed away.

I cried for weeks.

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For years afterward, I wondered why such a cheerful little girl had been taken away.

And now, twenty-three years later, her photograph was inside my dead wife’s box.

I looked at Rebecca.

“Why does Alicia have a picture of Ellie?”

Rebecca’s lips trembled.

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“Because Alicia was Ellie.”