Our house was ordinary—sunlit, peaceful, the kind of place where you never expect tragedy. She was the opposite of ordinary, though. Laughter followed her everywhere. Until the day it didn’t.
I came home to silence. Her phone, her keys, her shoes—all there. But she wasn’t. The police searched. Her family begged for answers. But as time passed, the case grew colder, and hope slipped away.
Years later, while cleaning out her untouched room, I found the notes. Hidden behind her dresser, stuffed into the wall like a secret she never meant for me to find.
“If I go missing, it’s Jake. Look at the cabin.”
Jake. Her ex. The one with the too-charming smile and the possessive streak. The one I should’ve warned her about sooner.
By the time I called the police, it was too late. Jake was gone, the cabin erased. No clues. No justice. Just a hollow ache of regret.
I moved out, but I kept those notes. They’re all I have left of her—and all the questions I’ll never get to ask.
