"My father was your doctor years ago," Dr. Bentil rushed to explain. "He treated you when you were a child. I spoke to some of his old friends to help me."
Max froze. The doctor's voice softened. "He never forgot what happened to your brother." Something sharp flashed across Max's face. For years, nobody spoke about that part of his life. Nobody dared.
"You had a twin brother," Dr. Bentil continued carefully. "He died when you were five. Around the same time, you underwent surgery." Max slowly sat down on the edge of the bed. His wet hair dripped silently onto his shoulders.
"I know this probably sounds insane," the doctor admitted. "And maybe I'm overstepping because of my own curiosity. Maybe I'm even risking my license calling you like this."
Max said nothing. But memories were already clawing their way back. Hospital rooms. Pain. His mother is crying. A tiny hand slipping from his.
