Everyone always joked that we’d need color-coded bowties just to tell them apart.

So we did—blue, teal, red.

Three perfect little copies, right down to the dimples.

They finished each other’s sentences.

Had their own language.

Shared everything.

It was like raising one soul in three bodies.

But a few weeks ago, Teal—Eli—started waking up crying.

Not from nightmares.

From memories.

That’s what he called them.

He’d say things like, “Remember the old house with the red door?” We’ve never had a red door.

Or, “Why don’t we see Mrs. Langley anymore?

She always gave me peppermints.” We don’t know anyone named Langley.

Last night, he looked right at me and said, “I miss Dad’s old Buick.

The green one with the dented bumper.”

I was stunned.

He wasn’t talking about my car.

I drive a Honda.

And there’s never been a green Buick in our family.

At first, we reasoned it was imagination.

The boys were seven.

They told wild stories constantly—pirate ships, dinosaurs in the attic, fairies under the porch.

But this was different.

Eli’s eyes would glaze over when he spoke, as if he were somewhere else.

He wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

He genuinely believed what he was saying.

My wife, Marcie, tried to comfort him.

“Maybe you dreamed it, sweetie.

Dreams can feel real sometimes.”

Eli shook his head slowly.

“No.

I remember it.

The red door had a squeak when you opened it.

Mom would tell me not to slam it.”

“Mom” meant me.

But he wasn’t looking at me when he said it.

It was like I’d vanished, replaced by someone else in his head.

Marcie and I started writing down everything he said.

We intended to discuss it with his pediatrician.

Perhaps even a child psychologist if it persisted.

Then Eli started drawing.

Pages and pages of a house with a red door.

Always the same details: a chimney with ivy, a stone path, a small garden full of tulips.

His brothers, Max and Ben, would peek over his shoulder and say, “Cool house,” but they didn’t seem disturbed.

Eli wasn’t scared.

Simply… sad.

As if something precious had been taken from him.

One Saturday morning, I found him in the garage rummaging through boxes.

He looked up at me, hands dusty.

“Do we still have my old baseball glove?”

“You don’t play baseball, bud,” I said gently.

“I used to,” he said.

“Before I fell.”

I crouched down.

“Before you what?”

“Before I fell off the ladder.

The one Dad told me not to climb.”

He touched the back of his head.

“It really hurt.”

I stared at him.

There was a calm certainty in his voice.

Not fear.