Page 51 of Somewhere Without You
The name beneath him read:Captain James P. Walker.
My breath caught.
It wasn’t just the name. It was the certainty in my gut—the instant, impossible recognition. As if some part of me had always known what he looked like. As if I’d seen his face before. . . somewhere behind my eyes, in sleep, or maybe memory.
Winston whined quietly at my feet.
I leaned in, my eyes locked on James’s face. He wasn’t just handsome, butfamiliar.Too familiar. Like a word on the tip of your tongue, or a song you know before the first note plays.
Captain James P. Walker—I read again, over and over until the letters began to bleed together. This man, the one I’d been writing, was no longer just a name on a letter, but a face.
A face I couldn’t shake.
The edges of the room seemed to blur as a strange weight pressed down on my chest—an invisible pull, like gravity had shifted and I was no longer anchored to the present. The air turned thick, electric, the way it does before a storm.
I blinked hard, but the photograph didn’t change. James’s eyes stared back at me with that same quiet intensity—calm, measured, and yet somehow knowing. My fingers trembled as I brushed them over his features, tracing the sharpness of his jaw, the line of his mouth.
I’d never seen this picture before. Couldn’t have. And yet—I had. Not in any conscious way, and certainly not in any way that made sense.
Déjà vu clamped down like a vice.
I pressed a hand to my chest, my heart thudding beneath my palm like it was trying to escape.
How could I know this man?
The letters had been one thing, but this? This was something else entirely. And it terrified me. Because if I knew him, then everything I believed about time, and memory, and what’s possible, had just cracked open at the seams.
After a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, I ripped the photo from the page. I knew it was wrong, but I’d make peace with karma later.
Then I shot to my feet, nearly tripping over Winston as I rushed to return the book to its shelf.
“Time to go,” I said, fumbling for his leash.
The woman behind the counter glanced up, concern creasing her brow as I hurried past. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I think I have,I thought, the weight of the photograph burning like a brand against my thigh.
“I, uh. . . just remembered I left the oven on at home,” I said. The lie rolled off my tongue a little too easily—it was starting to scare me how natural it felt. “Thanks for all your help.”
I stepped into the fading daylight, the chill brushing my skin like a warning. Winston stayed close, his usual tug replaced by a hesitant pace as if he, too, sensed something had changed.
In my pocket, the photograph seemed to pulse with a quiet urgency.
I didn’t know what any of this meant—not the letters, not the pull in my chest when I saw his face. But something was unraveling. Not just around me, butinsideme.
And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I was chasing the past. . . or if it was chasing me.
Twenty Nine
BythetimeImade it home, darkness had already settled in. I opened the car door, and Winston hopped out, tail wagging as he trotted alongside me. We started up the porch steps together, but as we neared the front door, he let out a soft whine.
“What is it?” I asked, kneeling beside him. His body was rigid, ears pinned flat against his head. He wouldn’t look at me—just kept staring straight ahead, unmoving, like he saw something I couldn’t.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.“See, everything’s fine,”I reassured him.
My hand brushed the wall as I searched for the light switch. The lamp in the corner flickered on, casting light over the living room and spilling into the kitchen.
My heart stopped.
