The man standing before me had Thomas’s eyes.
Not the same color. Not exactly the same shape. But there was something in the way he looked at me, as though he had been carrying a question for so long that asking it had become almost unbearable.
He was perhaps in his late fifties, with silver beginning to show at his temples. His uniform was immaculate, but his hands trembled slightly.
I stared at him, unable to understand why a stranger would know my name, know where I was going, and know the name of the man I had mourned for fifty-five years.
Then he spoke.
“Eleanor, my name is Daniel Whitmore. I believe my entire life has been connected to the man you came here to remember.”
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