My name is Elena. At twenty-seven, I’ve carved out a life as a freelance illustrator—a profession that allows me to exist in the margins of a loud world. Most of my days are measured in charcoal smudges, the rhythmic scratching of a stylus, and the comforting steam of a third cup of coffee. My studio is either a corner of a quiet café or the weathered back porch of a cottage that smells of salt and old cedar. It’s a solitary life, but after years of turbulence, I’ve finally embraced the stillness.I rarely speak of my family. There isn’t much to describe other than a series of disappearances.My mother was snatched away by a rain-slicked highway when I was only six. In the blink of an eye, my world reorganized itself. While my peers were learning to ride bikes in suburban driveways, I was hauling cardboard boxes into a modest cottage owned by my grandmother, Lily. I always called her Gran.

Gran was a force of nature wrapped in soft floral aprons. She had a voice like velvet that could quell my night terrors, and her kitchen was a permanent sanctuary of cinnamon and sugar. She was resilient, sharp-witted, and possessed a laugh that could brighten the gloomiest Oregon winter. Even in her late seventies, she filled our home with a low, constant humming—melodies so old they seemed woven into the floorboards.My father, a man Gran dryly labeled “a runner,” vanished shortly after the funeral. He didn’t leave a map or a reason; he just evaporated. It was just Gran and me against the world.hen there was the “other” side of the family. Gran’s second daughter, Aunt Greta, and her child, Lydia. Lydia was a year older than me, but we occupied different universes