The rain against the windows.
To his mother, who was crying in the kitchen.
To his father Daniel, who ran through the streets calling Lily’s name until his voice broke.
And to his grandfather Harold, who was sitting quietly in the living room.
— She probably wanted a different life — said Harold.
Noah hated those words.
Because Lily would never have left without saying goodbye.
The years passed.
The missing person posters faded. The police stopped coming. The neighbors stopped asking. But Margaret never gave up. Lily’s room remained untouched—her books on the desk, her blue jacket behind the door, her mirror covered in dust.
Every evening Margaret whispered:
Every evening Margaret whispered:
— My daughter will be coming home.
Then, fifteen years later, Harold died.
