The morning sun filtered through heavy curtains in Elias Witmore’s study, casting long shadows across Persian rugs and leatherbound books. Roshelle sat rigid on an antique seti, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, while Nia pressed close to her side. The transformation of their elderly neighbor into this commanding presence made the familiar room feel foreign and intimidating.
Aiyah stood by the fireplace, his fingers tracing the edge of a silver frame. His voice, when it finally came, was thick with emotion. It was December 3rd, 25 years ago. You were playing in the front yard of our home in Connecticut. He turned the frame to show them a faded photograph of a small black girl in a red wool coat building a snowman.
I had stepped inside for just a moment to answer the phone. Relle’s breath caught. The image struck something deep within her. A fragment of memory she’d buried long ago. Her hands began to tremble. When I came back out, Elias continued, his voice breaking. You were gone. Just gone.
