Christmas Eve, the snow fell in silence. When I pushed open the front door, the fireplace still glowed with warmth. Dinner was set on the table—cutlery neatly arranged, red wine untouched and not yet chilled. My wife’s scarf lay draped over the arm of the sofa, still holding a trace of heat. But where was she? "Mommy?" My daughter, Penny, came running down the stairs, her eyes red as if soaked in blood. She didn’t say a word—just pressed a note into my hand. The handwriting was my wife’s: *Ed, don’t look for me. I’ve been dead for three days.* My body went cold. Three days ago, she was in the kitchen making soup, laughing at the tomato sauce stain on my shirt. Three days ago, she kissed Penny’s forehead and said it would snow for Christmas, reminding her to wear something warm. Three days ago… she was alive! But the coroner later told me—there was no mistake. The signs of slow decomposition under cold conditions don’t lie. She had been gone for more than 72 hours. Then who had spoken? Who had laughed? Who had carefully stitched up Penny’s torn Christmas doll, needle by careful needle? Penny hugged the doll close and whispered, “Daddy, Mommy hasn’t left. She said… as long as we remember her, she can stay a little longer.” I broke down in tears. And on the seventh day, the doorbell rang. Standing outside was a woman with a gentle smile and a voice achingly familiar. “Hello, I’m Mia. The new nanny. I heard you… needed a mother?” The moment she stepped inside, Penny jerked her head up, pupils shrinking in shock. Because behind Mia’s ear was a mole—exactly like the one my dead wife had. That night, I found my wife’s diary in the attic. On the final page, she had written: *If another “me” ever appears, tell her: the child is afraid of the dark. Remember to leave the light on.* Snow began to fall again. At the graveyard, Penny crouched before the grave, placing the doll gently beside the tombstone. Moonlight spilled across the stone as she whispered, “Mommy, I won’t cry this Christmas.” “But promise me one thing—next time you come back… don’t borrow someone else’s body.” The wind passed without a sound. Far away, beneath a streetlamp, Mia stood motionless—and raised a hand to wipe away a tear that wasn’t hers. Ninety-nine days back, Catherine gave up everything—even her own life—to land that billion-dollar deal and pull her husband Ed back from the brink of bankruptcy. But Ed got it all wrong. He was dead set that it was Catherine’s sister Mia who’d bailed him out, and he treated Catherine like absolute garbage because of it.Ed was dead set on divorcing her. But when he finally dragged himself home? He walked in and found Catherine’s body lying cold on the floor…