I steel myself in the company of this stranger, who I now realize must be my sister’s boyfriend. A man I didn’t know existed until his emails arrived. “Yes, that’s me.”

“I am Sebastien. Call me Seb,” he adds. His accent wrestles with consonants in English, making them thick and adding extra syllables. Call me Seb-uh.

In the narrow hallway, aquamarine walls emphasize lustrous marble tile. The temperature instantly plummets once I’m inside, the chill jolting my senses. I wipe my chin as the door shuts with a vacant click. What if Angela were the one greeting me instead of this Seb-uh? She would have rushed forward, thrown her arms around me—our last words, spoken in anger, forgotten—and squeezed until I heard a vertebra crack. I would have protested, groaned aloud, but inwardly loved it, had I ever visited while she was alive.

Our footsteps ring through the lobby as Seb leads me to a winding iron staircase, past a single door marked CONCIERGE. Beneath, atop a bristly doormat, headlines blaze from a newspaper’s front page. Most of the text could be in Russian, for all I recognize it, but the side column’s title I know immediately: Traffic. Instead of feeling gratified I’m reading French in Paris, irritation tenses my jaw; the daily commute is what makes the news around here, not my sister’s death.

“May I?” Seb takes my duffel bag, then raises both eyebrows at its light weight. Clothing for only three days makes for easy travel. We step onto the stairs, single file, before he abruptly turns back.

“Please forgive me.” With a trembling finger, he touches the hair at my shoulder. “You are exactly identical. Except—”

“My eyes, I know.” I step back in the confined space. The look on his face disturbs me. Is that longing? Desire? For Angela, obviously. I’m a sad substitute for what has been taken from us both.

Seb leans in closer, and his scent is musty, like a library or a coat retrieved from a winter storage bin. “Forgive me. Is one eye green?”

I nod, pressing against the railing of the staircase. The metal digs in above my kidneys. “Angela’s are both brown. It’s the only way we differ. Phenotypically.” As identical twins, Angela and I have gotten this kind of curious reaction all our lives. The stares, the awed giggles. It’s old hat for me and beyond tactless on Seb’s part in this situation, regardless of whether he’s in mourning, too.

“How unusual for a Chinese woman. Half—of course. Your Scottish side is probably where that green comes from.” Seb releases a sigh. “Your mixed heritage was something Angela was very proud of.”