Chapter 2 - The Lady

A sleek black limousine arrived at the curb, its polished surface gleaming even through the downpour. It was the kind of car I’d only ever seen in magazines. It felt so out of place here, in this neighborhood, on this broken street, that I almost questioned if I was imagining it. 

The driver’s door opened. A man in a tailored black suit stepped out, his shining shoes somehow avoiding the puddles. He opened a massive black umbrella, the kind that looked like it cost more than my entire wardrobe. 

He moved to the back door. It swung open, and then she stepped out. At first, my brain struggled to comprehend what I was seeing. 

The woman emerging from the limousine was me. I wasn't the drenched, shivering person standing in the rain with squishy sneakers. 

No, this was me in another life. Her coat was impeccably tailored, hugging her figure perfectly. Her heels clicked confidently on the wet pavement. Her hair was styled in an elegant twist, every strand in place. Her skin glowed, radiant even against the dim streetlights, and her face—my face. 

She had the same eyes, the same mouth, and the same features—but she was transformed. Her gaze scanned the street, sharp, cool, and detached. Then—she saw me. Our eyes locked. The world froze. 

The rain seemed to subside, the noise of the city subsided, and time seemed to elapse. Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition crossing her face. For a brief moment, she looked as stunned as I was, but then her expression changed—subtle and controlled, almost as if she had been expecting me all along. 

She leaned closer to the suited man and whispered something I couldn’t catch. He nodded. Without another look in my direction, she walked into the glowing boutique. Gone. 

I stood there, rooted in place, drenched and trembling, unable to breathe. I had seen a mirror, a living, breathing mirror, not just someone who looked like me. 

This was me, and she had seen me first. I couldn’t move. 

I felt frozen. The rain kept pouring, running into my eyes and trickling down my neck, but I remained still, staring at the boutique’s glowing door long after it had closed behind her. 

My breath came in shallow gasps, each one trembling as if the air itself had turned heavy. It wasn’t just shock. It felt deeper. Something primal. When her gaze locked with mine, a connection formed between us. I sensed that this was more than just a coincidence.

I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering now—not just from the cold. How was this even possible? 

She had my face. This is my exact face, not a resemblance or a similarity. It was me. I have the same eyes, the same jawline, and the same tiny scar on my left brow from when I tripped as a child. 

I had seen myself—alive, breathing—but not quite me. And she had seen me first. The thought clawed at me as I forced my feet to move. I turned away, stumbling down the street, water splashing around my ankles. Each step felt unsteady, as if the ground had shifted beneath me.

The storm blurred the city into smears of light and shadow. People hurried past, faces hidden beneath umbrellas, but none of that mattered. I was somewhere else entirely. Her gaze followed me. 

It burned into the back of my skull, even though she was no longer there. The sharp, cold, and knowing look she gave me clung to me like rain on my clothes. I tried to convince myself I was imagining things. 

Perhaps she didn't resemble me as much as I thought; it might have been the storm, the lights, or my fatigued mind deceiving me. But then I remembered the scar. No magic trick could explain that. 

I picked up my pace, not caring that water splashed up to stain my jeans. My chest felt tight. 

When I finally reached the apartment building, I bounded up the stairs two at a time, my soaked shoes squeaking against the cracked linoleum. The familiar smell of dampness and old cooking oil hit me. 

Normally, it was disheartening. Tonight, it almost felt comforting. At least this place was real. At least it was mine. Inside, the apartment was dimly lit. Curled up under a blanket too small to cover them both, my brother and sister were dozing off on the couch. 

Their soft breathing filled the silence. I stood there for a while, watching them. My brother’s tiny hand clutched the corner of the blanket, his mouth slightly open. 

My sister’s curls were a mess against the couch, her thumb resting just inches from her mouth, as if she had been fighting the urge to suck it again—innocent, unaware of what I had just witnessed. 

Quietly, I made my way to my room, peeled off my wet clothes, and changed into dry ones. My body ached, my feet blistered, but I didn’t lie down. 

I sat in the dark, staring out the window. Rain trickled down the glass, catching the faint orange glow of a streetlight outside. My reflection stared back at me—tired eyes, damp hair, and hollow cheeks. And behind that reflection, I saw hers. 

She had a perfect face. She assumed a confident stance. 

I pressed my palms flat against the table, my nails digging into the wood. Who was she? Why did she look exactly like me? And why did I feel like I had just witnessed something I shouldn’t have? 

A memory then sparked. 

A rumor.

 It was a story I had heard in school years ago. We were kids then, sitting in a circle while the power was out, swapping ghost stories. Someone had whispered about doubles—people who looked exactly like you, not twins nor relatives, but strangers who shared your face. 

The story went like this: everyone has one—a doppelgänger. But you’re never supposed to meet them. If you do, bad things happen. I’d laughed it off back then and called it simply superstition, another story to frighten children. 

But tonight, those words echoed in my head, vivid and clear. “They say the one who sees the other first is the one who dies.” The chill crept over my skin, raising goosebumps despite the warmth of my clothes. 

She had seen me first, right? I leaned back in the chair, my heart pounding so hard I felt it in my throat. My hands shook, and my legs bounced restlessly under the table. 

I tried to convince myself it wasn’t true. Those stories were just tales. But fear doesn’t lend itself to reason. Fear has its logic, and at that moment, my mind was already filling in the gaps.

What if it was actually real? 

What if my death clock had just begun ticking? 

I remembered my mother's frail body and worn face. I am reminded of my brother and sister, their laughter, and their innocence. 

Who would look after them if I were gone? 

A lump rose in my throat. My eyes burned. I pressed the heel of my hand against them, but the tears broke free anyway. They slid down my cheeks, hot and relentless, mixing with the remnants of the rain. 

I wanted to scream. I wanted to break something. I hoped to claw my way out of this life and into hers. But all I could do was sit there, trembling in the dark, staring at my reflection in the rain-streaked glass. Whispering the question, I couldn’t be silent. 

Who is going to die first?