MY WIFE DIED IN A PLANE CRASH 23 YEARS AGO — IF ONLY I’D KNOWN IT WOULDN’T BE OUR LAST MEETING.

Recently, I met our new employee from Germany, Elsa, and I froze. She looked eerily like my late wife. I shook off the feeling, and we headed to the office.

Later, over lunch with the team, her light and funny personality stood out. We hit it off instantly, but don’t get any ideas — she’s 23 years younger than me, and that’s a line I’d never cross.

Over the next few months, Elsa became a trusted colleague and a great friend. One day, she said with a grin, “I showed your picture to my mom, and she immediately booked a ticket here. Maybe it was love at first sight, huh?” I laughed.

So I invited Elsa and her mom, Elke, to dinner. But as the meal began, Elsa excused herself to the bathroom, and her mom leaned in suddenly and grabbed my shoulder.
Her: “Don’t you dare eye my daughter. You don’t recognize me, do you?”

I frowned, taken aback by the sharpness in her voice. “I’m sorry, have we met before?” I asked, studying her face more closely. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but I couldn’t quite place it.

Elke let out a dry laugh. “Of course, you wouldn’t recognize me. It’s been 23 years.”

My heart stopped. A chill ran down my spine. Twenty-three years… the same amount of time since my wife, Anna, had died in that plane crash.

Elke’s hands trembled as she pulled something from her purse—a worn, yellowed photograph. My breath hitched as I saw it.

It was our wedding picture.

I swallowed hard. “Where did you get this?” My voice barely came out as a whisper.

Elke’s eyes filled with tears. “Because I was on that plane too.”

My body turned ice cold. My hands gripped the edge of the table. “That’s… impossible. The passenger list—”

“Was wrong,” she interrupted. “There were survivors… but not the ones you were told about.”

I stared at her, my mind refusing to process what she was saying.

Then she whispered the words that shattered my world completely.

“I’m Anna.”

The room spun. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My dead wife—whom I had mourned, whom I had grieved for decades—was sitting right in front of me. Alive.

And then, like a dam breaking, the questions rushed out.

“But how—why—why didn’t you come back to me?!“

Elke—no, Anna—took a deep breath. “Because I wasn’t allowed to.”

My mind reeled. What could she possibly mean?

Then she said the words that changed everything.

“I wasn’t just in a crash, I was taken.“