Fifteen years ago, my sister Leah vanished without a trace. One minute she was here, the next she was gone—no note, no leads, just silence. The last sign of her was a missed call to my phone. She rang me minutes before she disappeared. I didn’t pick up. I was tired, distracted, thinking I’d call her back later. I never got the chance. For over a decade, I’ve lived with that moment pressing on my chest like a weight I could never put down.

Two nights ago, I boarded a late-night train after a grueling day. The kind of ride where everyone looks tired, and strangers blur together under flickering overhead lights. As I sank into my seat, I glanced across the aisle—and froze. A girl was sitting there, hunched beneath a worn hoodie. She looked up. Same green-gray eyes. Same tiny scar under her jawline from a childhood bike crash. Time had softened her face, but I knew it instantly. Leah. She didn’t look shocked to see me. If anything, she looked… prepared. Like she’d been expecting this.

I choked out her name—“Leah!”—barely above a whisper. She stood without a word, turned, and walked toward the next car. I scrambled after her, heart pounding, but by the time I reached the next car, she was gone. Swallowed by the train. I got off at my stop, trembling. My phone buzzed. It was Mom, sobbing. She’d just woken from a nightmare—one she hadn’t had in years. In it, Leah was alive. Scared. Calling out. She said she could feel her. Still out there. Still waiting.

I didn’t tell her what I saw. I didn’t tell anyone. But tonight, I’m boarding that same train. Same time. Same seat. Because Leah looked at me like she remembered everything. Like she knew what I missed all those years ago. And if she’s still out there—trapped or hiding—I have to find her. This time, I won’t look away.