Rafael Ortiz never expected to feel small, but the mansion on Briarstone Avenue achieved exactly that. The iron gate towered above him, polished and cold under the pale winter sun. A security camera pivoted quietly, following his movements with mechanical patience. Rafael adjusted his worn jacket, glanced at his phone, and confirmed the delivery order once more.
Confidential document package. Recipient listed as estate management office. Payment unusually high.
He exhaled slowly, convincing himself that wealth always came with odd errands. For four years he had worked as a courier in Phoenix, Arizona. He had delivered legal papers, medical records, sealed envelopes, even wedding rings. Still, nothing about this assignment felt ordinary.
He parked his aging motorbike beside a marble fountain that no longer flowed. The silence around the mansion seemed to swallow sound itself. When he rang the doorbell, a woman in a gray uniform opened the door just enough to inspect him. Her eyes were sharp and assessing.
“You are the courier,” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I have documents requiring signature.”
She nodded once and let him inside, leading him through a wide hallway lined with oil paintings and antique mirrors. The air smelled faintly of candle wax and lilies. Rafael followed her into a vast living room, where a single portrait dominated the far wall.
He froze.
The world narrowed into a single point.
The portrait showed a young woman with warm brown eyes, a small beauty mark near her mouth, and long dark hair styled neatly behind her shoulders. She smiled softly, like someone hiding a secret. Black ribbons framed the painting, and beneath it sat white flowers and flickering candles.
It was his wife. Not similar. Identical.
