The Knock He Knew By Heart

The knock came at 9:47 PM. Three taps, patient, unhurried — the same rhythm Marc had used when he forgot his keys.

Élise stood frozen behind her own door. Through the peephole, Anton Moreau's face shimmered in the hallway light, his scarred hand resting against the frame like he owned it.

"Madame Vasseur," he said softly, though she hadn't opened. "Your candle."

She opened the door a crack. The chain held.

"My candle?"

"You didn't light it." His voice was gentle, almost concerned. "I noticed. I couldn't sleep, thinking about it."

He *noticed*. He couldn't sleep thinking about it. Who says that to a stranger?

"How do you know my name?"

A pause. Then a smile — Marc's smile, the one he'd given her when he proposed. The one that had made her trust him with everything, including the money he'd hidden.

"You have a mailbox, Élise." He tilted his head. "I read. I'm an antiques dealer. Research is what I do."

"Research on your neighbors?"

"I research what interests me." His eyes held hers through the gap. "And you interest me very much."

She should have closed the door. She should have called the police, Madame Renard, anyone. Instead, she heard herself ask, "Why my husband's face?"

The smile vanished. For a moment, his expression flickered — pain, or something that mimicked it.

"I don't have an answer for that," he said. "I've had this face my whole life. I moved here because I was drawn to this street. I don't know why. Something pulled me."

*The same pull that kept me lighting candles for a decade*, she thought.

"Prove it," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Prove you're not him."

His jaw tightened. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a wallet, sliding a photograph through the gap. A child's birthday party. A woman with tired eyes. A young man with both hands intact, no scar, standing awkwardly in the back.

"My father," he said. "That's my mother. My sisters. I was born in Lyon in 1988."

Forty-five years old. Marc would have been forty-seven.

She studied the photograph for a long moment. The man was younger, softer, but the face was the same. The same angle of the jaw. The same eyes.

He'd known her husband's name. Her name. The candle.

"Your candle," he repeated, quieter now. "I saw it the first night I moved in. I thought it was beautiful. I thought —" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought whoever lit it was waiting for someone."

His eyes met hers through the gap, wet and raw.

"Are you still waiting, Élise?"

She unhooked the chain.