No one slept that night.
Not in that house.
Fear lingered in every corner, creeping through the walls, sitting heavy in every breath. Doors remained half-closed. Lights stayed on. Whispers never truly stopped.
And in the center of it all—
Jack.
Or the man who claimed to be Jack.
Catherine sat across from him in the living room, her fingers tightly clasped together in her lap. A small table separated them, as if that thin piece of wood could protect her from the storm inside her chest.
Everyone else had moved back.
Far back.
Watching from a distance.
Waiting.
Judging.
Afraid.
But Catherine…
She stayed.
Because she had to know the truth.
Jack leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked onto hers. They were filled with something raw… something broken.
"Cathy," he said gently, "please… talk to me."
Her jaw tightened.
That voice again.
So familiar.
So dangerous.
"If you're really my husband…" she began slowly, her voice steady despite the chaos inside her, "…then prove it."
A murmur spread through the room.
Jack blinked.
"Prove it?" he repeated.
"Yes," Catherine said, her gaze hardening. "Because I buried my husband."
The words hit him like a slap.
He sat back slightly, pain flashing across his face.
"That wasn't me," he insisted. "I told you—my trip was delayed. The meeting—"
"Then tell me something only my husband would know."
Silence.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
Jack hesitated.
And for the first time—
Doubt flickered across Catherine's eyes.
"Okay…" he said slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, um…"
He looked around briefly, like he was searching for something to hold onto.
Then back at her.
"Our wedding day," he said. "You were nervous. You almost didn't walk down the aisle."
Catherine didn't react.
"That's… common," someone muttered from the back.
Jack swallowed.
"No, listen," he continued quickly. "You weren't nervous about the marriage. You were nervous because your dress tore slightly at the back, and you thought everyone would notice."
Catherine's breath caught.
That was true.
No one else knew that.
Not even her closest friends.
Her fingers tightened slightly.
But her face remained cold.
"Keep going," she said.
Jack nodded, a small spark of hope lighting his eyes.
"Our first night in this house," he continued, gesturing around, "the power went out. You got scared and pretended you weren't. You said it was just 'inconvenient,' but you held onto me the entire night."
A few people exchanged glances.
Catherine's lips parted slightly.
Still… she said nothing.
Jack leaned forward, his voice softer now.
"You hate bitter tea, but you drink it anyway when you're stressed… and you always leave the cup half-finished."
Catherine's heart skipped.
That was—
That was too specific.
Too real.
Too him.
Her walls began to crack.
But then—
A voice cut through the moment.
"That doesn't prove anything."
All heads turned.
The man in black stepped forward slowly, his expression calm, unreadable.
Catherine frowned slightly.
"Uncle Richard…" she said.
He gave her a small, reassuring smile before turning his attention to Jack.
"Memories can be learned," he said smoothly. "Especially if someone has been watching from a distance."
Jack's expression hardened.
"I don't need to learn my own life," he snapped.
Richard ignored him.
Instead, he looked at Catherine.
"If he is truly Jack," he said, "then there is something he cannot fake."
Catherine's heart pounded.
"What is it?" she asked.
Richard's eyes gleamed slightly.
"The scar."
The room went still.
Jack frowned. "What scar?"
Catherine's breath hitched.
Her eyes dropped instinctively… to his chest.
There was only one scar.
One that no outsider would know.
One that only she had seen.
Years ago.
An accident.
A deep cut just below his collarbone.
If this man was truly Jack—
He would have it.
"Take off your shirt," Richard said calmly.
Gasps filled the room.
Jack's jaw tightened.
"You're kidding, right?"
"Unless you have something to hide," Richard replied coolly.
Catherine's heart was racing now.
This was it.
The truth.
Right here.
Right now.
Jack hesitated.
Just for a second.
But that second—
That tiny pause—
Was enough to send a wave of unease through the room.
"Why are you hesitating?" someone whispered.
"Maybe he doesn't have it…"
"Maybe he's not—"
"Fine," Jack snapped suddenly.
Before anyone could say another word, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.
The room fell silent.
Every eye locked onto him.
Catherine's breath stopped.
Her gaze slowly lifted…
From his shoulders…
To his chest—
And then—
She froze.
There it was.
The scar.
Exactly where it should be.
Exactly how she remembered it.
Real.
Unmistakable.
Proof.
A wave of shock swept through the room.
"No way…"
"It can't be…"
Catherine stood up slowly, her legs trembling beneath her.
Her eyes filled with tears.
"It's… you…" she whispered.
Jack let out a shaky breath, relief washing over his face.
"I told you," he said softly. "I'm right here."
For a moment—
Just a moment—
Everything felt like it might go back to normal.
But then—
Catherine's expression changed.
Her brows furrowed slightly.
Her gaze sharpened.
Something…
Something was wrong.
Her voice came out quiet.
Too quiet.
"…then why," she said slowly, "do you smell different?"
The room went still again.
Jack blinked.
"What?"
Catherine took a step closer.
Her heart pounding violently.
"When you hug me…" she continued, her voice trembling now, "…you don't smell the same."
Jack's expression faltered.
Just slightly.
But she saw it.
"You always smelled like cedarwood and mint," she said. "Even your clothes carried it."
Her eyes searched his face desperately.
"But now…"
A tear slid down her cheek.
"You don't."
Silence.
Heavy.
Crushing.
Because suddenly—
Proof wasn't enough anymore.
From across the room, Richard smiled faintly.
Almost… satisfied.