The morning after her beautiful backyard wedding, Laura vanished without a trace—no note, no phone, not even a goodbye. One moment she was glowing in her lace dress under strings of yellow lights, laughing with me over lemonade; the next, she was simply gone. At the time, none of us noticed the brief flicker in her eyes, the way her smile trembled for just a second.

Her disappearance shook our entire world. The motel room where she and her new husband spent the night was left spotless, her dress neatly folded, her phone untouched. We called the police, organized searches, and questioned Luke again and again, but there were no clues. Laura had slipped away as quietly as wind through cornfields.

Days turned into months, and eventually years. The house grew quieter, and her name became something we said in hushed tones, as though speaking it too loudly might reopen old wounds. The mystery swallowed us, leaving only unanswered questions and the ache of not knowing.

Then, ten years later, in a dusty attic box, I found a letter written in Laura’s handwriting—the day she disappeared. And suddenly, everything we thought we knew about that night, and about Laura, began to unravel.