She’s not her. Can’t be her. Wrong height. Wrong age. Just a regular customer. Picking up takeout. Living her normal life.
But for half a second?—
“Dylan?” Alex’s hand is on my arm. Tight. “You okay?”
I snap back. Everyone’s staring. Dimitri. Sofia. My mom. Nikko from where he’s sitting.
“Yeah. Sorry. Just—thought I saw someone I knew.” The lie comes automatically.
“Who?” Dimitri asks. Casual. But his eyes are sharp.
“No one. I was wrong. Just—someone from work.” I pick up my fork with shaking hands. “Sorry.”
But Sofia saw it. The way I froze. The way the color drained from my face.
She makes the sign of the cross. Mutters something in Greek. A prayer. Longer this time. More urgent.
My mom’s hand finds mine across the table. Squeezes. Doesn’t ask. Just holds on.
Alex’s knee presses against mine under the table. Hard. Grounding me.
The moment passes. Conversation resumes. But the mothers keep watching. Nikko keeps watching.
They know something’s wrong.
They just don’t know what.
And I can’t tell them.
Can’t explain that I just saw a ghost. That every blonde woman in a black dress is Dahlia now. That I’m drowning and they can’t save me because telling them would only pull them under too.
Eventually, the meal ends.
We’ve been here three hours. That’s Sunday dinner. You don’t rush. You linger. You talk. You eat slowly. You have a third coffee. You wait for Dimitri to finally stand up and signal it’s okay to leave.
He does. Slowly. Reluctantly. Like he could keep us here forever if he just doesn’t say goodbye.
“You girls should get going, catch the train before you miss it. Next week,” he announces. “Same time.”
“We’ll be here,” Alex promises.
Dimitri pulls her into a hug. Holds her longer than usual. “Be careful,agápi mou.”
Alex tenses against him. “Always.”
“I mean it.” He pulls back. Looks at her face. His hands on her shoulders. “Be careful. Whatever is happening—be careful.”
She nods. Can’t speak.
Then Dimitri turns to me.
His hug is different this time. Tighter. More desperate. Like he’s trying to shield me from something he can’t see.
“You’re always welcome here,” he whispers against my hair. “Always. Whatever happens. You remember that.”
My throat closes. “I know.”
“Your baba—” He catches himself. Means my dead father. “Robert. He would want you to know you can tell me anything. Anything,korítsι mou. When you’re ready.”
