I remember that afternoon clearly – the day my world cracked, as silently as a mirror falling to the stone floor.

The sky was ashen, the first snowflakes of the season falling like dust. I was standing outside the bakery “Sweet Haven”, holding the phone to my ear, listening to the receptionist’s voice through the static.

“Sorry, the Turners’ Christmas order has been cancelled.”

“Cancelled? I – Matthew Turner – placed the order.”

“Um… Mr. Turner?” – she hesitated, then said softly – “According to the records, the person who placed the order, Michael Turner, passed away two weeks ago. I’m really sorry for the mistake.”

I held my breath.

Two weeks ago – the same time I left the hospital.

“Passed away?” – I repeated, my voice cracking. “Who said that?”

“A woman named Claire Turner confirmed. Your wife.”

I hung up.

The faint sounds of cars, the lights reflecting off the wet pavement. In the shop window, I saw my own face reflected – pale, eyes hollow, unfamiliar.

A man returning from an accident, his name erased from the world.

I drove to the old house, 17 Elm. The Christmas lights still flickered around the white picket fence. In the distance, I could see smoke rising from the chimney – Claire always liked to start the fire early, saying “winter is only warm with the smell of burning wood and the sound of children laughing”.

I stopped the car and stood in the dark for a long time. Music was playing from inside – “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” – the song Claire played every year.

That house, that family, had been mine.

I walked up and knocked.

The door opened, and light poured out.

Claire stood there – her blond hair tousled, her blue eyes surprised. For a moment, I thought she was going to burst into tears, to hug me. But she didn’t.

She just stood there, her face white.

Then, her voice trembling:

“Excuse me, are you…?”

I forced a smile, thinking she was joking.

“What are you talking about? It’s me – Matthew. My husband.”

“You’ve got the wrong house.”

She was about to close the door. I stopped her.

“Claire, come on. Don’t you recognize me? After the accident—”

A man’s voice rang out behind her:

“What’s wrong, honey?”

He stepped out.
And I felt like I’d been hit in the chest.

The man – brown hair, almost as tall as me, same gait, same gaze. A clone.

And in his arms, my daughter – Emily – was smiling brightly.

“Daddy! There’s Santa Claus outside!”

I almost burst into tears.

“Emily, it’s Daddy.”

But she just tilted her head, hiding behind his shoulder. Claire stood between us.

“I don’t know who you are, but please leave.”

“Claire! Are you crazy? I’m Matthew—your husband, Emily’s father!”

The man looked at me. Calm, not afraid, just… pity.

“You should go. I don’t want to call the police.”

I stood in the middle of the yard, snow covering my shoulders, watching them close the door.
The light in the house was soft yellow, the music was playing again.

Inside, Claire put her hand on the other’s shoulder, they raised their glasses. People around me chanted, “

“Merry Christmas, Michael!”

I felt myself thrown out of reality. “Michael”—the name the bakery had just given.
Michael Turner.
Was he the one who died, not me…or was it the other way around?

Three weeks ago, I had an accident on I-95. The car spun out of control and crashed into the median. I remember smoke, explosions, and then darkness. When I woke up, I was told I was lucky to have survived, but none of my identification was intact. Everything was burned.

I had temporary amnesia. They called me “John Doe.” I stayed in the hospital for almost two weeks, then left, believing I was Matthew Turner—because that was the first name that came to mind when the nurse asked.

Now I began to wonder: was that memory real?

I returned to the car, my hands shaking. In the trunk was a bag—the only thing I had picked up near the scene of the accident. A burned wallet.

Inside, I had seen credit cards, a driver’s license, insurance papers—all with the name Michael Turner.

I had thought it was the wallet of the passenger in the car, the dead man.

But now… I wasn’t sure.

Two days later, I was back on Elm Street. From afar, I saw the other man leading Emily out into the yard. He was carrying the little girl on his shoulders, throwing snowballs, laughing.

It was me – I used to be me – the father, the husband, the beloved.

I took a picture of them with my phone, zoomed in. Every detail matched perfectly – the scar under his chin, the mole on his neck. Only the eyes were slightly different: deeper, more confident.

I followed him for days. He went to work at the law firm where I used to work. It was easy to understand – I still remembered the employee card in my wallet: “Michael Turner, Senior Partner.”

But in my memory, I was also Senior Partner.

I remembered my desk, my colleagues, the smell of coffee in the morning break room.

So who was remembering wrong?

One night, I drove to the company. My access card still worked. My office – his – was still the same: the picture of Claire and Emily on the desk, the pen I gave him on our anniversary.

I sat down and opened my computer. The password was “Emily2016.” I guessed right.

In my personal folder, there were hundreds of emails – sender name: Matthew Turner.

I opened one.

“Michael, I’ve taken care of the finances. See you at the old cabin this weekend – need to talk about Claire in private.”

I scrolled down to the bottom of the email