Most people stopped asking what happened to my brother years ago. But every night at 8:12, I still leave the porch light on. My brother, Milo, vanished when I was 10, leaving only strange words behind: “Stay here, no matter what happens.”

People said he ran away, but I never believed it. After our father’s mysterious death, I clung to hope, painting lighthouses because Milo once said they were the last honest things in the world.

Eighteen years later, an envelope arrived with a sketch of a lighthouse in Milo’s style, signed “Still standing.” Hope surged back. That same week, he appeared at my door—older, gaunt, but unmistakably him.

Milo revealed the truth: he’d been taken by a secret agency after overhearing our father’s classified dealings. Forced to work as a ghost decoder, he finally escaped during a storm. He handed me a flash drive with proof and warned me to trust no one.

Before leaving again, he hugged me tight and whispered, “I love you. Check the sketch.” Hidden numbers led to a lighthouse with a date. Weeks later, a comment appeared under my painting: “The next light will flicker soon.”

So, I keep the porch light on. And wait.