“They are alive,” I answered bluntly.

“I meant emotionally, Hannah,” she clarified softly.

“I know what you meant,” I said, feeling a sudden surge of resentment.

Our mother, Lauren, called me every single Sunday without ever asking whether I was fully recovered from the trauma. Our father, Thomas, was always much quieter, choosing to sit quietly beside me whenever words failed us. They had both helped me survive the unbearable nightmare of losing Astrid. Now I was sitting right beside Astrid while she casually asked whether our parents were emotionally okay.

“You knew my phone number by heart,” I said, keeping my gaze fixed on the road ahead.

“Apparently my brain remembered it automatically,” she repeated.

“But you don’t even know whether Mom and Dad are okay,” I pointed out harshly.

She turned her face toward the passenger window. “That is much harder to explain.”

“Then you had better start explaining it soon,” I told her.

PART 5: THE CONFRONTATION

When we finally arrived at her apartment building in Riverside, I followed her inside and immediately understood just how completely she had built a life separate from us. There were thriving potted plants in the bay windows, framed art prints lined the hallway, and a solitary yellow ceramic mug sat beside the kitchen sink.

I picked up a heavy gardening book from her coffee table. “You hate dirt,” I reminded her, holding up the cover.

“I used to hate it before,” Astrid said softly, setting her purse on the counter.

“You literally killed a tiny cactus in high school,” I said, remembering the past.

Her mouth twitched with the ghost of a memory. “That was actually your cactus.”

“It was absolutely not mine,” I replied, and for a split second, I almost smiled.

Then my eyes drifted toward a collection of framed photographs sitting on her bookshelf. The photos showed Astrid laughing at dinner tables, Astrid kneeling in a lush garden bed, and Astrid standing beside various groups of complete strangers I had never seen before in my life.

There was not a single picture of me anywhere in her home. “How long have you lived in this specific apartment?” I asked.

“Three years,” she answered quietly.

“And where were you before that?” I pressed.

“Farther north, in a town called Fairview,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, putting the gardening book back down onto the table. “Start from the very beginning, right from the crash.”

Astrid took a deep, shaky breath and leaned back against her kitchen counter. “I was thrown clear of the car before it burst into flames, and I must have wandered through the woods in a complete daze because a passing driver eventually found me miles away on a totally different road.”

I stared at her, trying to process every word. “And you had a severe head injury?”

“Yes, a massive concussion and nothing on me that identified who I was,” she explained, holding her hands together.

“What about your memory?” I asked.

“It was completely gone at first,” she admitted, looking down at her fingers. “I literally had to relearn basic things, and I knew how to use a spoon long before I could remember my own last name.”

I swallowed hard, feeling a terrible ache in my chest. “And when did things start coming back?”

“My first name came back to me long before the rest did,” she said quietly. “But knowing that my name was Astrid was not the same thing as knowing where I actually belonged.”

“What about the personal memories?” I asked, stepping closer to her. “Mom’s bright yellow kitchen, or you singing horribly in the shower every morning?”

“The terrible singing was definitely you,” she said, trying to soften the mood.

“It was absolutely not,” I replied instantly.

For one short moment, something almost normal passed between us, hinting at the bond we used to share. But then I asked the one question that truly mattered to me.

“When exactly did you remember me?” I asked, watching her face closely.

Astrid looked down at the floor, avoiding my eyes. “Six years ago.”

I stared at her in total disbelief. “How long ago?”

“Six years,” she whispered.

“You knew I was alive for six whole years?” I asked, my voice rising in anger.

“Yes,” she admitted softly.

“You knew that I thought you were dead and buried?” I demanded, feeling tears of betrayal sting my eyes.

“Yes,” she repeated.

I reached out and picked up her yellow mug, staring at it before carefully putting it back down on the counter so I wouldn’t throw it against the wall. “Did you ever even try to call us?”

“I tried once,” she said defensively.

“Once in six years?” I yelled.

“I found Mom and Dad’s old home phone number, but it had already been disconnected,” she explained hurriedly.

“So you just gave up after one disconnected landline?” I asked, my blood running cold.

“I wrote letters to you,” she said quietly.

“Did you actually mail any of them?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

She looked down at her shoes again. “No.”

I stared at her with deep hurt. “Then you wrote those letters entirely for yourself, Astrid, not for any of us.”

She flinched as if I had struck her. I immediately grabbed my purse off the chair.

“Hannah, please wait,” she called out, reaching toward me.

I made it all the way to the front door before turning around. “You had six years to fix this.”

“I can explain everything if you just give me a chance,” she begged.

“You had six whole years,” I repeated coldly, and then I walked out and slammed the door behind me.

PART 6: REUNION WITH PARENTS

I did not call our parents that night, choosing instead to sleep on the overwhelming news. That was my explicit decision because Astrid had already controlled enough of the truth for ten years.

When I got back to my own home in Oakdale, I opened a kitchen drawer and stared at my two blue coffee mugs. One was for me, and one was an extra spare that I had kept around out of pure habit. I had been buying extra spare items for ten long years without knowing why.

The next morning, I finally picked up my phone and dialed our mother’s number.

“Mom, are you sitting down right now?” I asked as soon as she picked up.

“Hannah, you know I hate it when you start conversations like that,” Lauren said with a slight chuckle.

“Please, just sit down,” I insisted, my tone dead serious.

Her tone shifted instantly from lighthearted to deeply concerned. “Okay, I am sitting down. What is wrong?”

“Astrid is alive,” I said clearly.

There was a long, heavy silence on the line. Then, carefully, she whispered, “Sweetheart, what are you talking about?”

“I saw her yesterday with my own eyes,” I explained, my voice shaking.

Another agonizing silence filled the line before she spoke again. “Sweetheart, please…”

“She knew about the moon in my bedroom, Mom,” I interrupted, tears spilling over my lashes. “She knew about the broken glass vase during the blizzard. It is really her.”

A moment later, I heard rustling on the phone, and my father’s deep voice came through the speaker. “Hannah, what do you need from us right now?”

He did not ask where she was, nor did he ask how it was possible. He simply offered his immediate support.

“I don’t even know,” I wept softly.

“Then we will start right there, sweetheart,” Dad said gently.

Two days later, I drove Mom and Dad over to Riverside to see Astrid at her apartment. The moment we walked through the door, Mom stopped dead in her tracks, staring at her long-lost daughter standing near the bright window.

Astrid stood completely still as Mom crossed the room in three quick steps and pulled her into a desperate, tight embrace. “My baby,” Mom sobbed, burying her face in Astrid’s neck.

Astrid stiffened for a brief moment before completely collapsing against her, weeping silently. I stood near the entryway, watching the two of them with a complex mix of emotions.

Dad stayed a few feet back, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Hey there, kiddo,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

PART 7: A NEW BEGINNING

I looked away from them, realizing the terrible contradiction in my heart. I loved my twin sister with everything I had, but I was also deeply furious with her for what she had put us through, and both feelings felt entirely justified.

After a few minutes of crying, Mom began talking far too quickly, her voice filled with nervous energy. “I still make that cherry pie you used to love every holiday, Astrid. Your old room isn’t painted light blue anymore, but we can change it back this weekend. And do you remember that sweet lullaby you girls used to sing together?”

As Mom kept talking, Astrid’s hand suddenly slipped, and the ceramic mug she was holding hit the kitchen counter hard, rolling onto its side. “Stop,” Astrid said sharply.

Mom froze instantly in her tracks. “Astrid?” she whispered, looking startled.

Astrid pressed both of her hands over her face, taking sharp, ragged breaths. “Please, just stop talking.”

Mom looked utterly confused and hurt. “I can’t do this right now!” Astrid shouted suddenly, her voice echoing off the apartment walls.

Click Here to continuous Read​​​​ Full Ending Story👉PART(end)