Yesterday, I was at the supermarket, picking out groceries during my vacation. I was navigating through the aisles, enjoying the simplicity of the task. As I turned a corner, I froze. There, right in front of me, were my husband and his mom, casually strolling.

Normal, right? But here’s the twist – my husband died in a plane crash two years ago.

I was rooted to the spot, my mind racing and heart pounding. I blinked, trying to make sense of the impossible scene before me. It wasn’t just a resemblance; it was him, down to the way he walked, the little gestures I knew so well. And his mom, who had been bedridden for years before her passing, looked vibrant and healthy.

“James?” I whispered, barely audible, but he didn’t seem to hear me. They continued down the aisle, oblivious to my presence. I hurried to follow them, my breath shallow with disbelief.

“James!” I called louder this time, my voice trembling. He turned his head slightly, but it was as if he was looking right through me. Panic started to bubble up inside me. Was I losing my mind?

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I spun around to see a young man, probably in his early twenties, with an expression of concern.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked.

“I… I just saw my husband,” I stammered, pointing towards where James and his mom had been standing. “He died two years ago.”

The young man glanced in the direction I was pointing, then back at me with a puzzled look. “There’s no one there.”

I turned around, and to my horror, the aisle was empty. They had vanished.

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” the young man asked gently.

“I swear they were just there,” I insisted, my voice cracking. “You must have seen them too.”

He shook his head sympathetically. “I didn’t see anyone, ma’am. Maybe you should sit down for a moment.”

Feeling a mix of confusion and frustration, I nodded and let him guide me to a nearby bench. I tried to collect my thoughts, but they were a jumbled mess.

After a few minutes, I pulled out my phone and called my best friend, Lucy. She was the one who had helped me through the aftermath of James’s death.

“Lucy, I just saw James,” I blurted out as soon as she answered.

“What? Where are you?” she asked, sounding alarmed.

“I’m at the supermarket. I saw him, and he was with his mom. They looked so real,” I explained, my voice wavering.

“Stay there. I’ll be right over,” she said, her tone firm.

Within fifteen minutes, Lucy arrived and found me still sitting on the bench, staring blankly at the spot where I’d seen them. She sat down beside me and took my hand.

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“Tell me everything,” she said softly.

I recounted the bizarre encounter, my emotions spilling over. She listened patiently, then gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.

“You’ve been through a lot, and sometimes our minds play tricks on us, especially when we’re in a place that might trigger memories,” she said gently.

“I know what I saw,” I insisted, though doubt was starting to creep in. “It was so real.”
Lucy looked thoughtful. “Let’s get you home. Maybe some rest will help clear your head.”

As we left the supermarket, I glanced back one last time, half-expecting to see James and his mom again. But the aisle remained empty, a stark reminder of the thin line between reality and the lingering shadows of the past.
That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that what I had seen was more than just a figment of my imagination. Whether it was a glitch in reality, a haunting echo, or my mind’s desperate attempt to cling to lost loved ones, I couldn’t say. But one thing was certain: the encounter had stirred something deep within me, a mix of hope, grief, and a strange sense of closure.