Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~9 min read
Poppy sat on the porch steps of the lake house, staring at nothing. The sun had begun its descent toward the horizon, painting the water in shades of gold and amber. It was beautiful. It should have been peaceful.
Instead, it felt like a mockery.
Behind her, through the open door, she could hear Rochelle moving around inside. Her sister had taken one look at Poppy’s face after reading those letters and immediately gone into protective mode—making tea, finding blankets, suggesting they burn the whole place down.
That last one had almost been tempting.
“Here.” Rochelle emerged with two mugs of chamomile tea and sat beside Poppy on the weathered wooden steps. “Drink. You look like you’re going into shock.”
Maybe she was. Poppy’s hands felt numb as she accepted the mug, though whether from cold or emotional overload, she couldn’t tell.
“I was never real to him,” Poppy said finally, her voice distant. “Our entire relationship was built on me looking like a dead woman.”
“You don’t know that—”
“I do know that. I read it in his own words, Rochelle. He literally wrote that he approached me at the gallery because I reminded him of Rosa. That when he’s with me, he can pretend she’s still alive.” The tea sloshed in Poppy’s shaking hands. “I’m not his girlfriend. I’m a ghost he’s been trying to resurrect.”
Rochelle was quiet for a long moment. “I should have told you. About the phone call. About hearing him cry for Rosa.”
“Would I have listened?” Poppy let out a bitter laugh. “I was so in love, so convinced that Dominick and I were meant to be. If you’d told me he was hung up on an ex, I probably would have convinced myself I could make him forget her.”
“She’s not just an ex, though. She’s…”
“Dead. She’s dead. And somehow that makes it worse. Because I can’t compete with a memory. I can’t fight a ghost who’ll never age, never disappoint him, never be anything less than perfect in his mind.”
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of pine and lake water. Somewhere across the water, a loon called out, its cry echoing across the stillness.
“What are you going to do?” Rochelle asked.
Poppy had been asking herself the same question since reading those letters. What did you do when you discovered your entire relationship was a lie? When the man you loved had been using you as a placeholder for someone else?
“I need to talk to someone who knew her,” Poppy said slowly, the idea forming as she spoke. “Rosa’s family. Friends. Someone who can tell me who she really was. Not the idealized version Dominick’s been carrying around, but the actual person.”
“Why? What difference does it make?”
“Because I need to know.” Poppy turned to face her sister. “I need to know if we’re really that similar, or if Dominick just convinced himself we are. I need to know if there’s anything about me—anything at all—that he loved for being mine and not hers.”
Even as she said it, Poppy knew the answer. She’d read those letters. Seen the photos. Stood in a closet full of Rosa’s clothes that Dominick had given her to wear.
But some small, desperate part of her needed confirmation. Needed to hear it from someone who’d known Rosa, so she could finally put this fantasy to rest.
“Her obituary said she was an only child,” Rochelle pointed out. “And her parents… Poppy, they lost their daughter five years ago. Showing up on their doorstep to ask if you look like her seems cruel.”
“I know.” Poppy did know. But she also knew she couldn’t move forward without understanding the full truth. “What about friends? Coworkers? She worked at a gallery downtown. Maybe someone there still remembers her.”
Rochelle pulled out her phone, typing quickly. “The obituary mentioned the Museum of Modern Art. And I found her LinkedIn before—she worked at the Waverly Gallery until…” She didn’t finish the sentence.
Until she died.
“The Waverly Gallery,” Poppy repeated. She knew the place—a prestigious contemporary art space in the city’s gallery district. She’d been there once with Dominick, actually, for a opening about eight months ago.
Had he taken her there on purpose? Walked her through the same halls where Rosa had worked, introducing her to people who might have known his dead girlfriend, all while pretending it was just another date?
The thought made her nauseous.
“I’ll go tomorrow,” Poppy decided. “First thing. Before I lose my nerve.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Rochelle—”
“Don’t even try to argue. You’re not doing this alone.” Her sister’s voice was fierce. “I already failed you once by not telling you about that phone call. I’m not failing you again.”
Poppy felt tears prick her eyes. She didn’t deserve Rochelle. Didn’t deserve her sister’s unwavering support and fierce loyalty, especially not when Poppy had been so blind, so willfully oblivious to all the red flags she should have seen.
“Thank you,” Poppy whispered.
They sat in silence as the sun continued its descent, the light shifting from gold to rose to deep purple. Poppy’s phone buzzed occasionally—more notifications, more messages, more people wanting a piece of her story.
She’d stopped checking hours ago.
“Can I ask you something?” Rochelle said eventually. “And you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“Okay.”
“Did you love him? Really love him? Or did you love the idea of him?”
The question hit harder than Poppy expected. She’d been so focused on Dominick’s feelings—on his obsession with Rosa, his inability to love Poppy for herself—that she hadn’t stopped to examine her own emotions.
Had she loved Dominick? Or had she loved being chosen by him?
He was handsome, successful, sophisticated. He’d swept her off her feet with expensive dates and thoughtful gifts and the kind of attention that made her feel special. Like she was the center of his universe.
Except she wasn’t. Rosa was.
But before Poppy knew about Rosa, when she’d thought their love story was real—what had she felt then?
“I don’t know,” Poppy admitted. “I thought I did. I was ready to marry him, to spend my life with him. But now I can’t separate what I felt from what I thought was happening. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” Rochelle said softly. “It does.”
“I loved how he made me feel,” Poppy continued, working through her emotions aloud. “Cherished. Important. Like I mattered. My last relationship ended because the guy couldn’t commit, couldn’t see a future with me. And then Dominick came along and he was so certain, so all-in from the start. It felt like everything I’d been waiting for.”
“But was it real? Was he all-in with you, or with the idea of replacing Rosa?”
“That’s what I need to find out.” Poppy stood, her decision solidifying. “Tomorrow. The gallery. And then…”
“And then?”
“And then I confront him. For real this time. Not over text, not over the phone. Face to face. And I make him tell me everything.”
Rochelle stood too, pulling her jacket tighter against the cooling evening air. “We should head back to the city. It’s a two-hour drive and it’s getting dark.”
But Poppy hesitated, looking back at the cabin. “Give me a minute. There’s something I need to do first.”
She went back inside, moving through the space with new eyes. Everything here was Rosa’s. The books, the art, the carefully chosen decor. Even the coffee mugs in the kitchen—handmade ceramics from local artists—screamed Rosa’s taste.
Poppy had slept here. Cooked here. Made love to Dominick here. All while surrounded by another woman’s ghost.
In the bedroom, she opened the closet and pulled out the cable-knit sweater—the one Dominick had given her, claiming it was hers. Rosa’s sweater.
Then she grabbed the forest green cardigan, the sundress with tiny flowers, the denim jacket that looked vintage but expensive.
All Rosa’s clothes that Dominick had let Poppy wear. Had probably wanted her to wear, so he could pretend.
Poppy carried them to the fireplace in the living room. Rochelle appeared in the doorway, watching silently.
“You’re not really going to—”
“I need to.” Poppy knelt by the fireplace, arranging kindling and logs the way Dominick had taught her. The way he’d probably taught Rosa first.
She lit the fire, watching flames lick at the wood. Then, one by one, she fed Rosa’s clothes into the blaze.
The sweater went first, the cable knit curling and blackening in the heat. Then the cardigan, the dress, the jacket. Poppy watched them burn, feeling something in her chest crack and break open.
She wasn’t burning the clothes out of spite. She was burning them because she needed to. Because she’d worn them thinking they made her part of Dominick’s life, never realizing she was just playing dress-up as someone else.
“Anything else you want to add?” Rochelle asked quietly.
Poppy looked around the room. Her gaze landed on the photo album she’d found earlier—D + R forever, written in Rosa’s hopeful handwriting.
But no. That wasn’t hers to destroy. That was Rosa’s life, Rosa’s memories. And despite everything, despite the pain and betrayal and humiliation, Poppy couldn’t bring herself to erase evidence of a woman who’d died too young.
“No,” Poppy said. “Let’s go.”
They locked up the cabin and got back in Rochelle’s car. As they drove away, Poppy watched the lake house disappear in the side mirror, getting smaller and smaller until it was just a distant shape against the darkening sky.
She’d come here looking for answers.
She’d found them.
Now she just had to figure out what to do with the truth.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, she looked.
It was a message from an unknown number, but the preview text made her blood run cold:
Unknown: I worked with Rosa at the gallery. I saw your video. We need to talk. There’s something about Dominick you need to know. Something about the night Rosa died.
Poppy’s heart stopped.
Something about the night Rosa died.
“Rochelle,” Poppy said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I think Rosa’s story might be more complicated than we thought.”
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