Mike tried to move on. Sometimes he’d cry into my hair at night, then leave for work the next morning with his jaw set.
“Megan, please, let our boy rest in peace,” he whispered one night, voice breaking.
But hope is a habit you can’t quit. I kept chasing sightings long after the police called it a cold case. Every night, Bill still ran through my dreams, always out of reach.
Mike tried to move on.
The world moved on. Friends stopped calling, neighbors looked away, and even my sister Layla, my rock at first, drifted off after one ugly Thanksgiving fight.
Then one night, a miracle arrived wrapped in pixels.
***
It was a Friday, well past midnight. Mike was asleep, breathing slow and even, one hand splayed across my empty pillow. I lay awake in the living room, scrolling TikTok in the dark. I’d spent years searching faces online — missing kids, sketches, anything that felt even a little familiar.
Maybe the algorithm finally caught up with my grief.
Then a livestream caught my eye — just a flash of a young man with unruly hair and a quick, nervous smile.
He was sketching on camera, colored pencils scattered like candy.
A miracle arrived wrapped in pixels.
“Guys, I’m drawing a woman who keeps showing up in my dreams,” he said, laughing. “I don’t know who she is, but she feels… important.”
He held up the paper.
I dropped my phone. My heart leapt into my throat.
The woman in the drawing… her hair, the scar above her eyebrow, and the locket at her throat… was me. Not now, but as I was 15 years ago.
The year Bill disappeared.
I grabbed my phone, taking a screenshot so that I could zoom in. I stared at the drawing until my vision blurred. There was no doubt.
My heart leapt into my throat.
