Everyone joked we’d need color-coded bowties just to tell our triplets apart. So we did—blue, teal, and red. Eli was Teal—quiet, kind, thoughtful.

But a few weeks ago, Eli started remembering things. Not dreams. Memories.

A house with a red door. A green Buick. A woman named Mrs. Langley who gave him peppermints. None of it made sense—we’d never had a red door, never met a Langley, never owned a Buick.

At first, we thought it was just imagination. But Eli wasn’t pretending. He described things with haunting clarity—right down to the tulips in the front yard and the squeaky door hinge. He wasn’t scared, just… sad.

Then came the drawing. Pages and pages of the same red-doored house. And one day, he said quietly, “Before I fell off the ladder.” He even pointed to the back of his head, saying, “It really hurt.”

His pediatrician referred us to a child psychologist. After two sessions, she said gently, “This isn’t typical play. Some call it past-life recall.”

We reached out to a researcher, Dr. Mary Lin. On a video call, Eli told her his name used to be Danny Kramer. He lived near train tracks in Ohio. Fell from a ladder trying to fix a flag.

Three days later, Dr. Lin called: “There was a Daniel Kramer. Dayton, Ohio. Died in 1987. Age seven. Fell from a ladder.”

There was even a photo. He looked like Eli.

We didn’t tell Eli what we’d learned. But the next morning, he said, “I don’t think I’ll have the dreams anymore. I think I remembered everything I was supposed to.”

And just like that, they stopped.

Months later, a letter arrived. No return address. Inside: a photo of the red-doored house… and a note:

“Thought you might want this. —Mrs. Langley.”

We never told anyone about her.

Eli saw the photo, smiled, and said, “That’s it. That’s where I left my favorite marble.”

Years later, when the boys were fifteen, I found a shoebox under Eli’s bed. Inside was a single blue-and-green marble, and a note:

“To Eli—from Danny. You found it.”

I asked him where it came from.

He just smiled. “Some things don’t need explaining, Dad.”

I don’t know if I believe in past lives.
But I believe in Eli.
And sometimes, our children arrive already carrying stories.
Stories not meant to be explained—only honored.