For twelve years, she answered to a name that was not hers.

She learned to laugh differently.

To drink what they drank.

To remember birthdays that had never happened.

To speak about a childhood she had never lived.

At first, it felt like acting.

Later, it became easier.

That frightened her more.

She met him in her seventh year.

He believed her name.

He believed the stories about her parents.

He believed the photograph on her desk belonged to a dead brother.

None of it was true.

But when he touched her, she did not have to pretend.

They lived together for three years.

On Sundays, he cooked too much breakfast.

She complained about the music he played in the kitchen.

Sometimes he left property listings on the table.

She pretended not to look at them.

Once, while viewing a house, they passed an empty room.

He stopped in the doorway.

“This could be ours.”

She knew what he meant.

She laughed.

Later, alone in the bathroom, she cried without making a sound.

The order arrived on a Tuesday.

Her cover had been compromised.

She was told to be gone before he came home.

No contact.

No explanation.

Before leaving, she stood in the bedroom.

His shirt was still on the chair.

For a moment, she considered leaving a note.

She had spent years inventing histories, families, memories.

Now she could not decide what to write.

Not even her name.

So she left.

By the time he came home, she no longer existed.

Years passed.

Countries changed.

Names changed.

There was one telephone number she never wrote down.

She did not need to.

One night, she dialled it.

She expected silence.

Or a stranger.

A child answered.

“Hello?”

She said nothing.

“Hello?”

A pause.

Then, away from the phone:

“Dad!”