My sister disappeared 15 years ago. I was the last person she called, but I missed it. By the time I saw her voicemail, she was gone without a trace. No clues, no witnesses, nothing. Her name was Leah, and for years, I replayed that missed call in my head, wondering what she had wanted to tell me. Our family slowly gave up hope, but I never did. Two nights ago, I boarded a late train after a long day at work. As I slid into my seat, I glanced across the aisle and my heart nearly stopped.
A girl looked up from her book, and I froze. Same eyes. Same scar on her neck from the childhood bike accident we used to laugh about. My throat tightened. “Leah!” I blurted out, half-standing. She stared at me, wide-eyed, like she recognized me but wasn’t sure if she should. Slowly, she stood up. I rushed toward her, overwhelmed. “Where have you been? We thought you were gone forever!”
