The Echo Between Us

Carlie Sommers didn't believe in ghosts. At least, not the kind of ghosts who rattled their chains or whispered through walls, but she did have a belief in echoes---which were memories that stood around in the corners of her mind. These memories were soft and persistent. One of them was like the smell of Luca's cologne left behind on a winter coat that she hadn't worn in years. She was thirty-eight now, recently divorced, and a proud mother of two: a nine-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl.

And still, Lucas was the name she whispered when no one was listening. Her heart still pounded at the very thought of him.

Fifteen years ago, they were only a month away from marrying when he was killed in the line of duty. A routine traffic stop turned fatal. The kind of tragedy that made headlines for a day and haunted her for a lifetime.

She'd moved on, as people said she should. Married a man who promised stability but delivered betrayal. Ten years, two children, and one secretary later, Carlie found herself alone again—except for the ache that never quite left. The pain was associated with her long-lost love, Lucas James Malloy.

It was a Tuesday when she saw him.

She was in the supermarket, debating between two brands of almond milk, when a man walked past her with a little girl holding his hand. Carlie's breath caught. The man—his profile, his gait, the way he smiled down at the child—was Lucas. Nonetheless, he couldn't be Lucas; Lucas was dead and gone.

Or someone who looked so much like him that it made her knees weak.

The little girl tugged his hand. "Daddy, can we get the rainbow cookies?"

Daddy.

Carlie blinked, heart thudding. She followed them down the aisle, trying not to stare. Where was his wife? Was he married? Was this some cruel trick of the universe?

She turned a corner too sharply and rammed her cart into a towering display of cookies. Boxes tumbled everywhere.

The man and the girl rushed over.

"Are you okay?" he asked, crouching beside her.

She looked up, dazed. "Lucas…"

He froze. "No, I'm—Mark. Mark Grayson. And this is my daughter, Sophie."

Sophie smiled shyly, clutching a cookie box to her chest.

Carlie flushed. "I'm sorry. You just… You look like someone I used to know."

Mark helped her stack the boxes again. "Someone important?"

She nodded. "Very." Carlie didn't say anything more, because she didn't know this man; he was a stranger to her.

They parted with polite smiles. But Carlie couldn't stop thinking about him.

That night, she sat on the edge of her bed, flipping through an old photo album. There was Lucas, grinning in his uniform, arms wrapped around her waist. She traced the edge of his face with her fingertip, then closed the book gently. The ache hadn't faded. It had just learned to live quietly.

Two weeks later, she saw him again—at the local art fair. This time, he was alone, browsing watercolor landscapes. Carlie hesitated, then walked over.

"Hi," she said. "We met at the supermarket. I'm Carlie."

He turned, surprised. "I remember. Cookie catastrophe."

They laughed, and the tension eased. They talked for a while—about art, the town, their kids. Carlie learned he'd moved here three months ago, after losing his wife to cancer. Sophie was six. He worked remotely in IT and had no family nearby.

"You haven't changed," Carlie said softly, almost to herself.

Mark tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

She hesitated. "You remind me of someone I loved. He died. A long time ago."

Mark looked away, thoughtful. "I've been having dreams lately. About places I've never been. People I don't know. It's strange."

Carlie's breath caught. "What kind of dreams?"

He hesitated. "A porch swing. A woman with red hair is crying in the rain. Police sirens. A badge."

Carlie's heart thudded. "Lucas was a cop. He died in uniform. I cried on my porch the night they told me."

Mark looked shaken. "I don't know why I dream these things. They feel… real."

They began seeing each other more often. Coffee at the park. Walks by the river. Conversations that felt like déjà vu. Mark knew things about Lucas he shouldn't—his favorite song, the way he tapped his fingers when nervous, the nickname he used for Carlie: "Red."

One afternoon, Sophie tugged at Carlie's sleeve while they were baking cookies together. "Daddy used to wear a blue uniform and save people. In my dreams."

Carlie stared at her. "Did someone tell you that?"

Sophie shook her head. "No. I remember."

Carlie started pulling out old photos, letters, and journals. She found a picture of Lucas in uniform, standing beside her on the porch swing. She showed it to Mark.

He stared at it. "That's me. I mean—it's not. But it is."

Carlie whispered, "Don't you remember me?"

Mark looked at her, eyes wide. "I think I do."

They stood together at Lucas's grave, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the grass. Sophie knelt beside the headstone, her small fingers tracing the engraved name.

"Thank you for coming back," she whispered, not to Carlie, but to the stone.

Mark didn't speak. He just stared, as if waiting for something to rise from the silence. Carlie watched him, her heart aching with a strange blend of grief and wonder.

"I used to come here every year," she said quietly. "On the day he died. I stopped after the divorce. It felt like I'd lost him twice."

Mark turned to her. "I don't know what this is, Carlie. I don't know why I remember things I shouldn't, or why Sophie dreams about lives she's never lived. But I know I feel something when I'm with you. Something old. Something true."

Carlie nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Lucas was my beginning. Had he lived, I would have been his wife, Mrs. Lucas Malloy. But maybe… maybe you're my continuation."

They walked back towards the car slowly, while Sophie skipped ahead of them. Carlie glanced over at Mark; her voice was barely a whisper.

"Do you believe in chance at all. I know that I still do."

Mark grinned and then replied. "I do now but didn't before."

"I didn't think people get a second chance. But I believe it now."

Mark grinned and answered. "I do now, but before I didn't."

Weeks passed by. Carlie and Mark didn't rush anything. They met for coffee, shared stories, and let the connection unfold like a slow-burning flame. Carlie's two children, Ryan and Layla, warmed to Sophie, and Sophie began calling Carlie "Miss Red," without knowing why.

One evening, as Carlie tucked Sophie into bed during a sleepover, the little girl looked up and said, "You make Daddy happy. He doesn't cry in his sleep anymore."

Carlie kissed the child's forehead. "You make me very happy, too."

Outside, Mark was waiting on the porch swing, which was the same one that Lucas had built.

Carlie sat down beside him, and for the first time in many years, the silence felt full---not of ghosts, but of real possibility.