Our triplet sister died when we were eleven—until a box arrived on our 21st birthday that revealed she might not have been gone at all.

I was wrong.

That morning, I woke before my alarm and lay there in the pale light of my apartment bedroom, listening to the city hum outside my window.

Twenty-one was supposed to feel exciting.

Legal adulthood.
A milestone.
The kind of birthday people planned for weeks, with glittery dresses, crowded bars, and photos they would regret later.

For me, it felt continue reading …