Second Chances No Mercy

The day I was finally supposed to marry Maria, the woman I' d loved for sixty years across two lifetimes, she died. Or so they told me.

I stood at the altar, waiting, while the Texas sun beat down on the small chapel.

Then her mother stumbled through the doors, face a mess of tears. "Matthew," she wailed, "There's been an accident. A terrible accident."

"She's gone," her father choked out. My world tilted. How could she be gone? We'd loved until we were old and gray in our past life, then woke up young again, a gift. Now, it felt like a curse.

A week after the funeral, my best friend Andrew told me someone saw Maria's twin celebrating. "She didn't look like Sylvia," he murmured. "She looked exactly like Maria."

My hands stopped. Cold dread crept up my spine.

I drove to the Chavez house, heart pounding. It was a party. An engagement party.

And there, draped over my rival Wesley Fowler, was her.

Maria. My Maria. The woman I had buried. She was laughing, looking radiant, vibrant, and very much alive.

"Maria?" I choked out. She saw me, a flicker of shock in her eyes, then it vanished.