We had only been in Maine for three weeks when it happened. My wife, Lily, our eight-year-old son, Ryan, and our Doberman, Brandy, were adjusting to the cold slower than I was. But after sixteen years in Texas, I welcomed the sting of the crisp morning air in my lungs, the soft hush of pine needles underfoot, and the silence of a town that didn’t know our names.
“This place smells like Christmas,” Lily had whispered on the first morning, standing barefoot at the back door in a borrowed flannel shirt. I smiled at her and at the peace on her face.
That Saturday, we decided to go on a mushroom hunt behind the cottage. It wasn’t for anything fancy; just the kind Lily could sauté in butter and garlic while Ryan boasted about his foraging skills. Brandy barked at everything that moved. Ryan ran ahead with a plastic bucket, swiping at ferns. It was the kind of day that settles into memory before it ends.
Until… it got twisted.
Suddenly, Brandy’s bark changed. It dropped an octave, immediately alerting me, and then he growled—low and with warning. I looked up, and my son was gone.
“Ryan?” I called out. “Hey, buddy—answer me! This isn’t a game, okay?”
Brandy’s barking grew sharper ahead, echoing somewhere just beyond the trees. “Keep him safe, Bran,” I muttered. “I’m coming.”
I pushed through the brush, careful not to trip over the exposed roots. The trail narrowed without warning, winding between tall pines that blocked out most afternoon light. My boots sank into damp moss, and the air suddenly felt cooler and too quiet.
“Lily, come on!” I shouted at my wife.
“Coming, honey,” she said, sounding exhausted and scared. “Coming!”
“Ryan!” I shouted once more. A flicker of unease rose in my chest. Then I heard him. Not my son’s voice, no. But his laugh. And Brandy was barking again, but not aggressively. I picked up my pace.
I emerged into a clearing I hadn’t seen before and stopped dead in my tracks. “Uh… guys?” I called over my shoulder, just as Lily caught up to me. She stopped beside me, eyes scanning the space. Her brow furrowed.
“What is this place?” she asked, her voice low and cautious. “Travis… those are headstones, aren’t they?”
She walked a little further, then hesitated. Lily was right. There were a few headstones scattered around the clearing. It was eerie, but peaceful.
“And those are flowers. Look at this, honey. There are so many dried bouquets, everywhere!”
She pointed toward one of the graves. “Someone came here,” I said. “Well… has been coming here for a long time.”
Lily opened her mouth to respond, but Ryan’s voice beat her to it. “Daddy! Mommy! Come look! I found something… I found a picture of Dad!” he called out, the excitement palpable.
“What do you mean, my picture?” I asked, moving toward him carefully through the weeds. My chest felt tight, and I was starting to feel dizzy.
“It’s you, Daddy,” Ryan said, not even turning around. “It’s the baby you! Don’t we have a photo like this above the fireplace?”
When I stepped beside him and looked down, my breath caught in my throat. Set into the headstone was a ceramic photograph. It was worn from age and chipped in the corner… but it was still unmistakably clear. It was me. I was maybe four years old, my dark hair longer than Ryan’s now. My eyes were wide and unsure, and I was wearing a yellow shirt I only vaguely remembered from a torn Polaroid back home in Texas.
Beneath the photograph was a single line etched into the headstone. “January 29, 1984.” It was my birthday.
Lily reached for my arm. Her voice was quiet but firm. “Travis, please. This is too strange. I don’t know what this is, but I want to go home. Come, Ryan,” she said.
“No. Wait! Just a minute, please, Lily,” I said, shaking my head. “I just want to… see.”
I knelt down and touched the edge of the ceramic frame. It was cold. I felt something shift inside me—not just panic, but something deeper. It was like… a recognition I wasn’t ready for.
That night, after Ryan was asleep, I sat at the kitchen table. “What on earth is going on here?” I muttered. “That is me, no doubt. But I’ve never been here before. I’m sure I’d remember that?”
Lily sat across from me. “Is there any chance your adopted mom ever mentioned Maine?”
“No,” I replied. “I asked her once, when I was younger. I wanted to know my story. She said she didn’t know much. Just that she got me from a firefighter named Ed, and I was left outside a burning house when I was four. The only thing I had was a note pinned to my shirt.”
“What did it say, Travis?” Lily asked, her eyes wide.
“‘Please take care of this boy. His name is Travis.’ That was it. My mom has it stuck in a scrapbook.”
Lily squeezed my hand gently. “Maybe there’s someone in this town who knows more. Someone who remembers the fire… and maybe your birth parents, Trav. Maybe fate allowed us to move here for a reason?”
I nodded slowly. I had always felt lost. I couldn’t remember my birth parents. I couldn’t remember any siblings or grandparents. It was as though that time had been redacted.
The next day, I found a retired librarian named Clara who had been working at the town hall for forty years. When I showed her the photo, her hands trembled. “It’s a miracle,” she whispered. “Everyone thought you were gone.”
I told her my full name, and she searched an old ledger. “Travis Black,” she read. “Born January 29, 1984. Twin brother, Caleb.”
The room swayed slightly. I pressed my hand to my forehead to steady myself. “I had a twin?”
“No one ever told me,” I said.
“Maybe… they just didn’t know,” Clara said. “There was a fire… your family lived in a small cabin. Your parents were young, and didn’t have much. But they loved you both.” She paused. “It was a cold winter. The fire started during the night. They found three bodies.”
“My parents and my brother?” I asked.
“Yes,” Clara agreed. “That’s what they believed.”
“But I wasn’t in the cabin?”
“No, honey. You weren’t.”
“So how did I end up in Texas?” I asked, a soft ringing starting in my ears.
“That’s the part no one ever knew,” Clara said, giving a sad smile. “I always thought that maybe you had been in the house too… but maybe… they just missed your little body. I don’t know, son. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
The old woman reached for a photo album. Inside was a newspaper clipping from 1988. “Fire Destroys Family Cabin—Three Dead, One Unaccounted.” Below it was a photo of two boys standing in a field. They were identical in every way.
I touched the page lightly. “After the fire, your father’s younger brother, Tom, came back. He stayed for a few months, trying to rebuild. He placed a few memorial stones, including the one with your photo,” Clara continued.
I looked at her, confused. “Why would he do that if I wasn’t dead?”
“Because no one knew for sure,” she said. “There were no dental records. The clinic where you and your brother were born had burst pipes the following year. All the medical records were gone. Tom always believed that one of you might’ve survived. But the town had already moved on.”
“Where is he now?”
“He still lives at the edge of town. But he keeps to himself. He’s not the same.”
The next morning, Lily came with me. We drove to his house. Tom’s front yard was wild but not abandoned. When he answered, he looked at me for several long seconds, then blinked like he had seen a ghost.
“I’m Travis,” I said. “I think… I’m your nephew.”
His face shifted, softening. He nodded and moved aside to let us in.
“You look just like your father,” Tom said finally.
“I came back after the fire. Everyone else said the boys were gone, but I couldn’t accept it. I kept thinking—maybe Mara got one of you out. She would’ve tried. Your mother would have done anything for you boys.” My eyes burned. I looked at the man who had kept the memory alive.
“When I placed the headstone,” Tom said, “I didn’t know it would bring you back… but I hoped. And I prayed that wherever you landed up, you were okay.”
I nodded and held tightly onto my wife’s hand.
“Caleb was always quieter,” he said after a moment. “You were the wild one, Travis.” We spent the afternoon going through smoke-stained boxes.
