Three winters this man had lived close to us, and not once had I heard him complain that the plate in his wrist ached in the cold, the way Sebastian always had.

He called Camila “my ladybug” the exact endearment, the precise words, that Santiago and only Santiago had ever used for her, a private name I had never heard from Sebastian’s mouth before the crash.

He knew things about our old house, tiny quirks of its layout, which cabinet stuck and which stair creaked, that I had smiled at and dismissed as some uncanny twin intuition, the way twins are supposed to share things.

Each of these, alone, was nothing.