Echoes of Melissa

He spoke of Melissa, not with the brittle edges of grief that had once defined his memories of her, but with a gentle reverence, a whisper of a smile. It was a revelation that settled over me like the first soft snow of winter, thawing the permafrost of my own sorrow. Wesley, my son, so fiercely protective of me, so burdened by the lies that had clung to him like burrs, had carried another weight, a silent companion. He had spoken to Melissa, his twin, the one I had lost before she could draw her first breath.

“She was always there, Mama,” he’d said, his voice thick with a wonder I hadn’t heard before. “Even when I was small. She’d tell me things. Things about you.”

A shiver traced its way down my spine, not of fear, but of a profound, unsettling recognition. It was the echo of my own abilities, the sight that had been both a blessing and a curse, the visions that had guided me through the darkest of nights. Wesley, my son, had inherited it. He had seen through the veil, just as I did.