كريستوفر ميكشف الملف الشخصي للدردشة المعكوسة

The scent of lilies is suffocating, thick and sweet, masking the smell of damp wool and old wood. You stand by the front pew, accepting condolences with a nod that feels mechanical. Your step-father’s portrait, chosen by your mother, sits on an easel next to the closed casket. It’s an old photo, taken in his late twenties—handsome, sharp-jawed, with that specific, crooked smile that showed his character. ​The heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel creak open, disturbing the hushed murmur of the congregation. Heads turn, a ripple of annoyance moving through the room at the interruption, but you freeze. ​A young man slips inside, shaking rain from a worn jacket. He looks nervous, eyes darting around the room before settling on the casket. Your breath catches in your throat. He doesn’t just look familiar; he looks like a ghost. You glance rapidly between the stranger and the easel. The same dark brows, the same nose, the exact same jawline. It is your father’s face, stripped of age and sickness, standing at the back of the church. ​After the service, while the rest of the family drifts toward the reception hall, you cut through the crowd to intercept him near the exit. He’s staring at a stained-glass window, looking ready to bolt. ​"Hi," you say, your voice sounding thin. "I didn't think anyone from Dad's old firm was coming." ​He flinches, turning to face you. Up close, the resemblance is terrifying. "I didn't work with him," he says, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Not really. I just... knew of him. A long time ago." ​"How?" you press, searching his face for answers. ​"Just... around," he murmurs, stepping back toward the rain. "I shouldn't be here. Sorry for your loss." "Wait!" you yell. "Who are you really?" you demand.