Page bolted from the porch, hands swinging outward to grip the knob of the double doors. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to have double doors? Footsteps brushed against the hut's floor, rushing towards him. The woman had her arms stretched out as she made for the door as well. "Page! Wait—"

The doors slammed shut with a violent yank from him. Shaking fingers twisted the locks. A final click couldn't have rang inside his head this loud. Heart pounding, he stalked towards the bow windows where the woman followed him, tapping on the glass and demanding to be let in.

It couldn't be. Simply not possible. A frantic breath ripped out of Page's lips as he braced the glass panes cooled by the early morning dew, peeking at his painting left to dry in the open. The lilies were still there, swaying with the nonexistent wind, cropped straight from the wildflowers peppering the rising hill in the horizon. The woman in the painting was gone, and knocking her knuckles against the window was...

His eyes widened, heart falling to his gut. No. This was it. Page has officially lost his mind.

"Page! Open the goddamn door!" The woman screamed. Page glanced at the line where the sky met the hills. Was having no nearby neighbors a curse or a benefit? While nobody could see him cowering inside his house, no one would be near enough to call to remove a relentless stalker threatening to break his door down.

A gasp flitted past his lips. The backdoor. Oh, no.

The woman seemed to have thought of the idea the same moment as he did since she sank into her knees, left the window alone, and scrambled off the porch. She leaped past the balustrade, swinging over it as if she had done it all her life. Her boots hit the moist ground, sending her stumbling against the side of the house.

Page wasted no time. He dashed past the living room, knocking standing easels aside to clear the quickest way to the kitchen. Whoever that woman was, she was crazy. Too insane for Page to handle and what a way to ruin his otherwise fine morning. The dining table whizzed past the edge of his vision. He considered pushing it against the door, but the woman's head already bobbed past the small, square window framed by wooden planks. No time.

His shoulder slammed against the backdoor, thumb jamming into the knob's button. Locked.

The door shook as the woman's hands battered the splintering wood. "Come on, Page! Don't be like this," she exclaimed. "I don't have all day. Just...just let me in."

"How do you know my name?" Page blurted out. Was he talking to the person who would probably kill him or loot his house? Did she want a painting so badly? He would make her one if only she asked nicely. No point in trying to sneak inside his house. "Who are you?"

The clambering stopped. "Is that how far along you are?" she breathed against the door. It was too soft, that Page only got a whiff of the last few words. What was she talking about? "All the more reason for me to hurry."

She hit the door once more. It was a closed fist, this time. He was certain he bounced backward a bit with every whack. What a damned powerhouse, this woman. "Just open the door. I promise I won't hurt you," she said. "I know you have a lot of questions. I'll answer them—promise! Just let me in!"

"Who the hell are you?" Page screamed. He hoped the edge in his tone told the woman to leave him the hell alone. He didn't want to be in this situation as much as she did. "Why do you know me?"

"My name is Dara," she replied. "I'm your wife. At least...I was."

That didn't make the least sense. Page hadn't even been in the chapel for all his life. What was the universe thinking, playing a joke on him like this? If he had a wife, shouldn't he know that out of all people?

"I don't believe you," he said. "I'm sorry. You'd have to stay out. Stay out of my house."

The pounding renewed. That was one persistent woman. "Dara," she said again as if he hadn't heard it the first time. "Doesn't that name ring a bell?"

"No," Page answered without missing a beat. Not a hint of hesitation colored his tone. He hadn't met a woman who looked like her, who had the same face as her, and who talked the same way as her. How could he marry a woman he hadn't even met? Did he miss something here? "I don't remember you. Go away, please. Stop saying you're my wife. I do not have someone like that."

He moved away from the door, aiming to retreat to his room. "Coffee!" the woman cried from behind the door, freezing him in place. The boots of her heels snapped against the floorboards as if she started pacing. "You don't like your coffee cold."

Nobody wouldn't. Page didn't see what was relevant about that or why he should care. He continued towards the door. "Eggs! You don't like your eggs poached. Only hard boiled," the woman continued. "You don't like it when they're hard to peel either."

Page whirled to the door. With the walls and the door blocking any view of Dara, he couldn't see her face or any proof of the lies she might be spinning. Because her words rang true, and he wouldn't understand why or how that detail about him traveled far down to the village to reach this woman's ears.

"Your favorite color is white because you use it in mixing almost every other shade. You think it's versatile and you preferred bright but gentle colors in your paintings," the woman continued in an almost rambling manner, spouting such truths about him as if he told her himself. He didn't, by the way. Where was she getting these? "You hate yellow because it easily gets dirty and hard to come up with the right shade."

Page marched back to the door, eager to slam his hands on the wood and tell the woman off. "Flowers!" Dara cried. Her voice could have carried back to the town with this volume. His hands paused halfway to the rickety door. "Your favorite flowers are lilies. You paint them everywhere. But did you know why? Because they were mine first. I loved lilies, so you found a way to incorporate them in every project."

"Just...go away," he said in a deflated voice, any fight seeping out of his pores. "I need to get back to my project, and I can't have you bothering me. The face...it's fading away."

"That's exactly why I'm here," the woman replied. Something shuffled from the other side. Maybe it was her laying her forehead against the door. "Open the door. Please."

Page retreated to the comforts of the kitchen. "You've got the wrong person," he said. "I'm never that person you talk about."

Before the woman could voice out her disagreement, Page locked himself in his room, pretending the entire morning hadn't just happened.