**Diary Entry**
Im Edward, sixty-one this year. My wife passed away eight years ago, and ever since, my days have felt like an endless stretch of quiet. My children visit occasionallykind enough, bringing envelopes of cash, dropping off my medicine before rushing off again. Their lives move too quickly for me now.
I thought Id grown used to solitudeuntil one evening, scrolling through Facebook, I saw a name I never expected: Charlotte Whitmore.
Charlottemy first love. The girl I swore Id marry one day. She had hair like golden wheat and a laugh that still lingered in my mind after forty years. But life pulled us apart. Her family moved suddenly, and she was married off before I could even say goodbye.
Seeing her photo againstreaks of silver in her hair, but the same tender smilefelt like time had folded in on itself. We talked, reminiscing over old memories, long phone calls, then tea at a quiet café. The warmth between us was instant, as if the decades had never existed.
And so, at sixty-one, I married my first love.
Our wedding was modest. I wore a charcoal suit; she wore cream lace. Friends said we looked like young sweethearts again. For the first time in years, my heart felt light.
That night, after the guests left, I poured two glasses of sherry and led her to the bedroom. Our wedding nighta moment I thought time had stolen from me.
But when I helped her out of her dress, I noticed something odd: a scar near her collarbone, another along her wrist. I frownednot at the scars themselves, but at how she tensed when I touched them.
Charlotte, I murmured, did he hurt you?
She froze. Her eyes flickeredfear, guilt, hesitationbefore she whispered something that turned my blood to ice.
Edward my name isnt Charlotte.
The room went still. My heart pounded.
What do you mean?
She looked down, trembling.
Charlotte was my sister.
I stumbled back. My mind reeled. The girl Id rememberedthe one whose smile Id carried for forty yearsgone?
She died, the woman whispered, tears falling. She died young. Our parents buried her quietly. But everyone always said I looked like her sounded like her I was her shadow. When you found me on Facebook, I I couldnt resist. You thought I was her. And for the first time, someone looked at me the way they looked at Charlotte. I didnt want to lose that.
The world tilted. My first love was gone. The woman before me wasnt hershe was a reflection, a ghost wearing Charlottes memories.
I wanted to shout, to demand answers, to rage at the deception. But as I looked at hershaking, fragile, drowning in shameI saw not a liar, but a woman who had spent her life unseen, always in someone elses shadow.
Tears stung my eyes. My chest achedfor Charlotte, for the years lost, for the cruel twist of fate.
I whispered roughly, So who are you, really?
She lifted her face, shattered.
My name is Margaret. And all I wanted was to know what it feels like to be chosen. Just once.
That night, I lay awake beside her, unable to sleep. My heart was tornbetween the ghost of the girl I once loved and the lonely woman who had borrowed her face.
And I realised then: love in old age isnt always a blessing.
Sometimes, its a testone harsh enough to remind you that even after all these years, the heart can still shatter.
