I Buried My First Love After He Died in a Fire 30 Years Ago – I Mourned Him Until I Realized Who My New Neighbor Was

The skin along his wrist and forearm wasn’t the same texture as the rest of him. It was shiny in places, tight in others — grafted.

And on the inside of his forearm, half-hidden beneath it, was a distorted scar — like melted ink.

A figure-eight. An infinity symbol that had been through suffering.

My throat closed.

Then his sleeve slid back.

I didn’t mean to speak; I didn’t mean to say his name like a prayer.

“Gabe?”

His smile faded.

“You weren’t supposed to recognize me, Sammie,” he said. “But you deserve truth, huh?”

“Gabe, how are you here?”

His voice broke. “That fire, 30 years ago, wasn’t an accident.”

I unlatched the door and stepped aside.

“Come in,” I said.

His smile faded.

**