It was supposed to be an easy babysitting job. Petra, who lived just two doors down, texted me last minute: “Just one calm little girl, Eden.”
When I arrived, I was surprised to see not one, but two girls—identical twins, both blond, both in matching brown shirts, both staring silently at me. I asked, “Eden?” One nodded, the other said nothing and quietly walked away.
I texted Petra: “You didn’t mention a twin.” Her reply confused me: “What are you talking about?”
I checked the photos on the walls—only Eden. No sign of another child. Then the silent twin whispered, “She always forgets me.”
Before I could ask more, Petra came home early and froze—there was only one girl on the couch. When I told her I’d seen two, her face went pale. She hugged Eden and told me to leave.
That night, I couldn’t shake the image of the silent twin or her words. The next day, Petra’s house was strangely quiet with all the curtains closed, and she didn’t reply to my messages. A few days later, I saw movers at her house.
I asked if she was moving because of what happened. She invited me in and finally told me the truth: Eden had a twin named Elise who died shortly after birth. Petra said Eden sometimes talked to Elise or set places for her at the table. She even once saw both girls holding hands at her bedside.
She thought she was losing her mind, but hearing me mention two girls made her believe again. She wasn’t sure if Elise was still around—maybe she just wanted to be remembered.
That night, I researched twins and grief and found a story about a mother who said the spirit disappeared only after she held a memorial for her lost twin.
I told Petra, and she invited me over to try. We lit candles and placed photos and bracelets of both girls on the mantle. Petra spoke to Elise, apologizing and saying they remembered her. Eden said quietly, “She heard you.”
The room felt lighter, warmer. Petra cried, but with relief. She moved weeks later, seeking peace. Before she left, she gave me the photo of the bracelets and said, “You’re the only one who believed me.”
Months later, I received a letter with a child’s drawing: two girls holding hands under a tree, with the words, “Thank you for seeing me.”
Some stories don’t have neat endings. But I learned this: sometimes love and memory go beyond life and death. Sometimes, all a lost soul needs is to be truly seen.
If you hear a strange story, don’t dismiss it. Sometimes, the truth is just waiting for someone brave enough to believe.
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