Sam.

~~~

Birthdays were supposed to be joyful, right? That's what everyone say, anyway. From the moment someone enters the world, people mark the occasion with cake, candles, and cheer every year. December tenth, 1996, was no exception—or so I had always thought.

But as I stared at the grainy photograph of Melissa on Molly's phone, that certainty started to unravel. Melissa had died the same day I was born.

"Hey!" Molly's voice cut through my thoughts, her fingers snapping in front of my face like she was swatting an invisible fly.

I ignored her. My focus stayed locked on the photograph. The resemblance was... uncanny. Molly hadn't been exaggerating.

The more I studied Melissa's face, the more similarities I saw. Her messy half-up, half-down hairstyle obscured some details, but even in the low-quality image, I could make out the small freckle-like birthmark on her cheek—the same one I had in the exact same spot. Our nose shapes were identical too, sharp yet soft, with a subtle curve at the bridge.

"Sam, we need to go," Molly said again, snapping her fingers closer this time. "Don't tell me you're buying into that reincarnation nonsense."

"No," I muttered, my eyes lingering on the photo. I caught the title of the article below but didn't bother reading it. "It's just... weird. I've never seen her photo before. My parents never even mentioned her. And she died on my birthday."

"You've stared enough," Molly said, snatching the phone from my hands. "We still need to talk about your book."

"Hey, I wasn't finished!" I protested, reaching for her phone.

"You weren't even reading the article."

I faltered, caught. "I was... just looking at the photo."

"Exactly. What were you doing the whole time I was in the bathroom?" Molly raised a knowing eyebrow. She didn't need my answer; she already knew.

"Fine," I admitted hesitantly, standing up from my chair. "What about my book?"

Molly didn't reply right away, leading the way out of the cafe. The city sounds hit me like a tidal wave as we stepped onto the bustling street. Honking cars, snippets of passing conversations, the distant wail of a siren—it all collided with the whirlwind of emotions churning inside me.

I followed Molly in a daze, struggling to keep up as her voice became a blur against the noise. My legs felt heavy like they were made of wood, and my steps dragged beneath me.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked, pausing in front of a shop door.

It took me a moment to catch up, and when I did, I was slightly out of breath. My cheeks flushed, either from the autumn heat or sheer exhaustion.

"You walk too fast," I said, exhaling heavily. "I couldn't hear a word you were saying."

Molly tilted her head, concern flickering across her face. "You asked about your book," she reminded me, pushing open the glass door. "Well, there's a book online that starts with your name, and since you haven't shared your manuscript with me, I'm guessing someone's using your name to get attention."

I blinked, trying to process her words as we stepped inside. The shop was bright and calm, a soothing contrast to the chaos outside. Soft music played in the background, and only a few other customers wandered the aisles.

"Did you read it?" I asked, my voice shaky.

"Some of it," Molly admitted as we walked toward the back of the store. Rows of stockings, socks, and tights filled the walls, and mannequins stood like silent sentinels displaying the latest trends. "I just wanted to see why people thought it was yours."

"And?" I pressed, scanning the racks absentmindedly.

"The premise is about a detective investigating a murder," Molly explained. "A girl shoots a guy in self-defense, and he was stalking her. Sound familiar?"

Her words struck me like a physical blow. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out the gentle music. My heart pounded, each beat slamming against my ribcage.

"That's... my story," I managed to choke out, my throat tightening.

Molly's eyes widened as she turned to face me. "The detective is a woman, right?"

I nodded slowly. "And it's set in New York?" Another nod. My knees felt weak, and I gripped the edge of a nearby display for support. "Someone leaked my book," I whispered, barely able to get the words out. "But how?"

"Scott?" Molly asked, her voice dropping as she avoided my gaze, her attention drifting to the shelves of stockings in front of us.

"What would even be the point for him?" I asked, my voice tight with frustration.

"As revenge, I guess," Molly said after a pause, her tone reluctant. She stepped closer to the rows of socks and stockings, running her fingers along a row of colorful patterns. "What color are you thinking?" she added quickly, clearly trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.

I followed her gaze, scanning the mannequin legs adorned with everything from bright, playful patterns to more daring lace designs. My eyes landed on a pair of black socks with lace-trimmed rims—classic, understated, and more my style.

"Those," I said, pointing to the stockings. A wave of bitterness surged through me as I thought about the stolen manuscript. "Months of work, completely wasted. I can't possibly publish my book now."

"You still can," Molly said, plucking the socks from the display and handing them to me. "You said it needs more work, so just change some stuff. Make it into something new—it won't be the same book."

I shook my head as I browsed through the neatly packaged socks on a lower shelf, the words coming out in a defeated sigh. "I'm not sure any publisher will see it that way, Molly. They'll say it's already been done."

"Marcy will," Molly countered, grabbing my elbow to emphasize her point. "Or your dad."

I rolled my eyes, gently pulling my arm free. "You know I want to do this on my own," I said, moving toward the cashier.

Molly trailed behind me, her voice dropping to a mutter. "Well, you could always self-publish. It's not like you don't have the money for it."

Her words stung, not because they were untrue, but because they touched a nerve I was trying to ignore. Sure, I could self-publish. I had thought about it before. But that wasn't what I wanted. For me, getting my book out there wasn't about just having it published—it was about earning the recognition that came with someone choosing to publish it. I wanted someone to read my work and believe it was worth the effort, worth the investment.

As we left the shop, the small paper bag containing my socks dangling from my hand, I turned over my thoughts, searching for a way to explain it to Molly. But the words wouldn't come.

Molly didn't understand my need to carve out my own identity. To her, the Morris name was an asset, a privilege to wield. And it was, but it was also a weight. I loved my family, but I yearned for something that was mine—a success that couldn't be attributed to connections or legacy.

We stepped back onto the bustling sidewalk, the late afternoon sun tossing shadows across the dull pavement. I pulled out my phone, distractedly scrolling as a deep, rumbling sound broke through the city noise.

A sleek black car pulled up to the curb, its V8 engine roaring as it idled. My head jerked up just as Raymond leaned out of the driver's side window, his familiar grin lighting up his face.

"Hey!" Molly waved at him, but I froze.

Ray's smile faltered as he caught sight of my expression. My stomach churned, and I felt my hands go clammy. The swirl of unresolved emotions and the weight of everything that had happened hit me all at once, leaving me rooted to the spot.

Ray tilted his head, his brows knitting together in concern. "Sam?" he called, his voice cutting through the noise of the street.