My brother vanished 13 years ago. One moment he was part of our lives—laughing at the dinner table, leaving his jacket draped on the couch—and the next, he was gone. We searched for years, posting flyers, calling hospitals, chasing down rumors, until the hope slowly withered away. Eventually, we forced ourselves to live with the silence.
Last night, I stopped at a gas station. A man walked past me, his steps hurried, his head down. But then I saw it—the jacket. My brother’s leather jacket. The patches, the worn sleeve, even the faded initials stitched inside the collar. It was his.My chest tightened. I shouted, “Adam!”
The man froze. Slowly, he turned his head. His eyes locked with mine, wide and terrified. His face went pale as if he’d seen a ghost. Then, without a word, he spun around, hurried to his car, and drove away, tires screeching on the pavement.
My phone chimed. I pulled it out with shaking hands. It was a text from my mother. “I hope you’re okay. I just had a bad dream about you! You had disappeared, just like your brother. Please come home fast.”I stood there, staring at the glowing screen. My mother never texted me out of the blue. Never shared her dreams. The timing made my skin crawl.
Tonight, I went back to that gas station at the exact same hour, waiting in the shadows, hoping—dreading—to see him again. But the place was empty, the silence pressing against me. I never told my mom. I couldn’t. She had carried enough pain already.And yet, deep inside, I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t over. Something is terribly wrong. And maybe, just maybe, Adam isn’t the one who disappeared… maybe he’s the one trying to make me disappear too.