FAYE
I was still half in my head when I stepped into the dining room that morning. The smell of coffee and fresh bread floated through the air, warm and welcoming, but the scene waiting for me at the table quickly replaced the comfort with curiosity.
Two women sat there. The first was Irene...of course, Irene...looking as lively as always even with a spoon halfway to her mouth. But the second… I didn’t recognize her.
She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a glossy magazine. Her makeup was precise, her hair perfectly styled, her outfit so coordinated it almost made me check if I had crumbs on my shirt. She didn’t resemble Irene in the slightest—too polished, too… staged... almost fake. She reminded me of one of those decorative porcelain dolls: pretty, rigid, and somehow unnervin
