Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
JOSEPHINE
My mind scrambles for logic. Genetics. That’s it. Family resemblances amplified across generations.
The woman smiles politely.
Mid-sixties, maybe. Red hair threaded with silver, braided neatly. Eyes a startling lavender-gray that feel older than her face.
“I’m just looking,” I manage.
My voice sounds thin.
She studies me a second longer than a casual shopkeeper should. Not suspicious. Remembering me from earlier.
“You’re Ash’s friend,” she says too warmly.
“Nope. Neighbor.”
Her forehead knits. Like she takes it personally. But why?
I ignore it, drifting further down the aisle to avoid her gaze. The museum photo burns in my memory. So does the sketch. I pull out my phone casually, as if texting.
But we both know I only have one bar, and that’s scanty in spots.
I angle it toward a display of work gloves. Tilt slightly. Frame her reflection in the convex security mirror above the counter. Click.
My pulse spikes. She doesn’t react. Or maybe she does, and I miss it.
I move again, forcing my breathing to slow. This is absurd. I need a reason to be here.
My eyes land on a stack of Farmer’s Almanacs near the front.
I grab one. Of course. Astronomical references. Solstice timings. Perfectly rational. Suggested by Ash.
When I approach the counter, she’s watching me in that same quiet way. “Find what you needed?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say quickly, holding up the almanac. “For research.”
Her gaze darts to the cover, then back to me. “Yes,” she says mildly. “Because of the rock art.”
My fingers tighten on the book.
If she’d said museum, that would be one thing. But this? “How do you know that?”
A pause.
Just long enough. “I…”
Her smile deepens slightly. “…pay attention.”
The words are simple. Neutral. But something in the way she says them makes my stomach tighten.
He’s been talking about me and my research to her.
She rings up the almanac. Her hands are steady. Unhurried. There’s a faint scar along her left knuckle.
My ears ring. I saw that in the museum photo. Drew it in grayscale not more than an hour ago at the cafe.
Unmistakable.
Didn’t I?
No.
That’s impossible. Inexplicable.
And if there’s anything anthropology has taught me, it’s that nothing is ever truly without explanation.
It can’t be.
I thank her and step back into the street. The bell above the door chimes again. The wind feels colder now. I don’t make it to the car before I pull out my phone.
I open the museum photo first.
M. Redfern, 1910
Then the one I just took.
Zoom.
Cheekbone height. Mandible angle. Intercanthal distance. Earlobe attachment. The ratios line up…
Exactly.
I feel fuzzy-headed by the time I reach the museum. Like this day has contained decades rather than hours.
Debbie greets me, asking where I’d like to start. She sets me up in the archive room, telling me she’ll be staying late tonight. No need to rush.
“Thank you.” The words sound far away, like they’re coming from somewhere else.
I should head out to the car and grab my to-go box before it bakes. But my stomach churns, so far away from eating, I can’t even palate the walk to the car.
Instead, I do the only thing I know how. I dive into research. Measurements, academic articles, old field note journals from the first archaeologists to document the glyphs.
I’m struck by the general lack of knowledge recorded about the site. Before I thought it was incompetence. Now I see it differently. As if the first researchers didn’t want anyone poking around.
I open my phone, staring at the photo. Then close it again, burying it in my purse and losing myself in the smell of archival materials, old papers, and cold air.
By the time I leave the museum, the sky streaks lavender and magenta. Swallows fly in a black murmur in the distance. Like one massive body.
I have to go home and rest. This place. This research, they’re getting to me.
But not nearly as much as the cowboy with ash-blond hair and eyes that feel too much.
At the ranch, I excuse myself upstairs. I can’t talk. Can’t think. Then, I sit on the edge of my bed and overlay both images. Measure again.
Landmark mapping. Glabella. Nasion. Subnasale. Gnathion.
The proportions match within a fraction. That’s not generational resemblance. That’s structural identity.
I tell myself there’s a cataloging error. The 1910 photo is mislabeled. Or the date is wrong. But the waitress didn’t skip a beat when I said nineteen ten. The way my grandpa and grandma shrugged off Ash’s appearance like it wasn’t a thing.
I open a new email to my advisor, Dr. Whitaker, without knowing what I’m going to write. Maybe I should explain everything? Maybe I should give up, say I’d like to pursue another research strain. I stare at the screen until my eyes hurt, then finally start typing, slow and stilted:
Subject: Possible archival mislabeling — Redfern Collection
Attach both images.
Type:
The facial metrics are statistically improbable across four generations. Please confirm the provenance of the 1910 Redfern photograph.
I stop.
If I send this, I make it real. If I send this, I sound unstable.
My eyes slide to the upper right-hand corner of my laptop. Flickering at one bar. I can’t send it even if I want to.
I delete it
My hands are shaking now. I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face layered over the museum photograph.
The identical tilt of the head. The same anchored stance.
Around midnight, I get up.
There are other explanations. Family records. Grandpa keeps everything.
If the Redfern lineage runs deep here, there will be evidence of generational change. Normal aging.
I step into the parlor and kneel before the cabinet. The albums smell of cedar and dust. I flip slowly.
Weddings. Harvest festivals. Cattle drives. Yearbooks.
Faces aging across decades the way they’re supposed to.
I turn another page.
Ninteen sixties.
Color fading toward sepia. Men in narrow ties. Women in sleeveless dresses. My eyes skim… then stop.
Second row. Left side. Grandpa. Thirteen. Freckled. Grinning.
And beside him… My vision blurs.
Ash.
Thirteen. Same turquoise eyes. Same jawline. Same left nostril sitting just slightly lower than his right.
The cleft chin. The lopsided smile.
Younger, yes. Smaller.
But the identical individual.
I flip to the caption beneath the image:
Summer ’66 — West pasture fence rebuild.
Nineteen sixty-six.
The math detonates in my head.
If he were thirteen in nineteen sixty-six… He would be…
No.
Not possible.
My stomach churns violently. I grip the edge of the album. The room tilts.
This isn’t resemblance. This is identity. The same face I saw this afternoon.
Mid thirties max. Not seventy. Or even fifty.
Thirty-something.
The air thins. My heart pounds too fast.
I try to stand, but my knees buckle.
Photographs scatter across the rug as the album slips from my hands.
Time doesn’t stall. Men don’t stay the same age for endless decades.
Unless…
I shut the thought down instantly.
No.
That’s myth. That’s folklore. That’s everything I can’t believe in.
Black spots gather at the edge of my vision. The last thing I see before the floor rushes up is Ash at thirteen, smiling out of nineteen sixty-six.
Too young for now.
Too old to be what he is today.