Eli to Ellie

The morning after the message, the air smells like rain and antiseptic soap. The shelter’s generator hums low, and outside, puddles mirror the bright, uncertain sky. Mrs. Halloway sits near the door, coat folded neatly on her lap, her phone tucked away as though she can pretend it never chimed.

“We should go home today,” she says softly. “Your mother will be laid to rest this afternoon, and I don’t want us showing up like we’ve been living in a storm.”

My throat tightens. *Your mother.* I nod because it’s easier than correcting her, easier than explaining what she’s lost and what I’ve stolen.

But before we can leave, she insists, “Let’s stop by a salon first. You look worn out, sweetheart. Claire would want you looking your best.”

I start to protest, but her expression—tired, loving, and utterly sure—stops me cold. So I follow.

The salon sits two blocks away, its window fogged from hair dryers and steam. Inside, it smells of shampoo, lilac spray, and faint heat from curling irons. A cheerful stylist greets us—“Come in, come in! Oh, poor thing, caught in the storm?”—and before I can answer, Mrs. Halloway has her purse open, sliding a small photograph across the counter.

“This is my granddaughter,” she says. “She’s been through so much lately. Could you make her look like herself again?”

The photo hits me harder than I expect. It’s the real Ellie—smiling, sunlight catching the edge of her blond hair, a hint of freckles across her nose. She looks maybe sixteen there. The stylist studies it, then turns to me with a sympathetic nod.

“Of course. We’ll take good care of you, hon. Sit right over here.”

I obey. It’s reflex at this point—smile when spoken to, nod when unsure. My reflection in the mirror looks back, pale and frayed at the edges, caught somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief.

Warm water runs through my hair. It feels strangely intimate, almost invasive, like someone brushing dust off a painting you haven’t finished yet. The stylist hums softly, asking about “school,” about “friends,” and I give noncommittal answers. Each question adds another brick to the wall of pretense.

When she’s done washing, she combs and trims, scissors whispering through the air. The faint scent of hairspray clings to me, then lotion—sweet and floral. My shoulders tense at every small touch.

Mrs. Halloway watches from the next chair, hands folded, eyes bright with memory. “You’re doing wonderfully,” she murmurs. “You’ll feel better once you see yourself again.”

See myself again.

I glance at the photograph on the counter. The stylist has propped it against the mirror for reference. Every snip and brush stroke draws me closer to that girl’s reflection, and farther from my own.

Foundation covers the uneven color from the sleepless night; a little gloss adds warmth to my lips. When the stylist pins back my hair, the person in the mirror almost—almost—looks natural. A stranger who could pass anywhere, unnoticed.

“There,” she says finally, stepping back. “A fresh start for you both.”

Mrs. Halloway’s breath catches. “Oh, Ellie… you look just like your mother did when she was your age.”

Her voice trembles on the last word. She reaches out, smoothing a stray lock from my temple as if I really am that child she remembers.

My pulse stutters. I want to pull away, to say I’m not her, but the grief in her eyes holds me still. The lie feels almost merciful. So I nod. I even manage a small, careful smile.

We leave the salon to a sky that’s turning blue again. Mrs. Halloway thanks the stylist, clutching the photo as if it were proof of something precious restored. On the street, passersby glance our way, smiling politely. I catch one reflection in a storefront window and hardly recognize myself—hair soft and bright, face smoothed clean, clothes from Ellie’s recovered bag fitting neatly, if a little snug.

It’s a disguise that feels too perfect.

The bus ride to the cemetery is quiet. Mrs. Halloway dozes, her hand resting lightly over mine. I can feel the faint tremor in her fingers. I stare out the window, counting road signs, pretending to be somewhere else. The weight of the bag with Ellie’s belongings rests on my knees like a second conscience.

At the small chapel, the service is simple. No priest, no speeches—just a few neighbors, a bouquet of lilies, and the low murmur of rain starting again. Mrs. Halloway stands beside me, her shoulders shaking once, then steadying. People offer condolences to “Ellie,” and I nod through the blur, too tired to correct anyone.

When it’s over, the photographer—some old family friend—asks for a picture “to remember the day.” The click of the shutter freezes me in place. Mrs. Halloway’s arm around my shoulders, my face turned toward the light, expression unreadable.

For a moment, I wonder what the real Ellie would think if she saw it—her grandmother clinging to a ghost wearing her name.

And then I realize: the longer I stay silent, the harder it will be to ever give it back.