seven hours missing

The rain started just as Emma Lowell pulled into the school parking lot. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, waiting for the stream of children to spill out the doors. Bright backpacks, laughter, the high-pitched clamor of release. But her daughter, Lila, did not appear.

Emma craned her neck, scanning every face. Nothing.

At first, she told herself not to panic. Maybe Lila was dawdling inside, tying her shoes, or talking to the teacher. But when the last of the children scattered to their cars and buses, the tight coil of fear snapped. Emma got out, rain soaking her coat, and marched inside.

“Mrs. Lowell,” the teacher said, startled. “I thought you’d already picked her up. She left when the bell rang.”

Emma’s mouth went dry. “Left? With who?”

“With no one. Just… walked home like usual.”

Emma bolted back outside, calling her daughter’s name until her throat hurt. By the time the police arrived, the rain was pounding in sheets. Flashlights cut through the gathering dark. Neighbors gathered with umbrellas, dogs pulled at leashes, voices shouted into the night. The woods beyond the soccer field loomed, black and endless.

Every second felt like glass pressing into Emma’s lungs.

Seven hours passed.

At 11:17 p.m., an officer’s voice crackled over the radio: “We’ve got her.”

Emma ran. Her knees nearly gave out when she saw Lila standing at the tree line, barefoot, her small hands wrapped tightly around her backpack straps. She looked… fine. Untouched. Her hair neatly braided. Clothes dry as bone despite the storm.

“Sweetheart!” Emma scooped her up, sobbing into her daughter’s neck. “Where were you? What happened?”

Lila’s voice was small, almost flat. “I was waiting. They said I couldn’t move until you came.”

Emma stiffened. “Who said that?”

But Lila pressed her face into Emma’s shoulder and said nothing more.

---

The next morning, the house felt wrong. Too quiet, as though something heavy lingered in the corners. Emma tried to cook breakfast, but her eyes kept darting back to her daughter.

Lila sat at the kitchen table, humming softly to herself — a tune Emma had never heard before. The sound was sweet and lilting, but unsettling.

Emma set a plate down and froze. Inside the backpack Lila clutched to her chest was a sandwich — half eaten, made with coarse brown bread Emma never bought.

“Where did you get that?” she asked carefully.

Lila shrugged, eyes lowered. “Lunch.”

Emma reached for her daughter’s hand and noticed the ribbon tied neatly around her wrist. Bright red, too clean, as if freshly bought.

“Who gave you this?”

No answer.

---

The police came again that afternoon. Two detectives sat stiffly on the living room couch, rainwater dripping from their jackets.

“No signs of abduction,” one of them said. “No evidence of anyone leading her away. CCTV cameras on Maple Street flickered to static at 4:15 p.m. and came back at 11:16. That gap…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Emma gripped her knees, knuckles white. “You’re saying she disappeared into thin air?”

The detective didn’t answer.

That night, Emma checked on Lila as she slept. A doctor had found nothing wrong, no bruises, no injuries — except for a faint circular burn mark on her ankle, the size of a coin.

Lila’s lips moved in her sleep. Emma bent close, barely breathing.

“He said he likes our house,” Lila murmured. “He’ll be patient.”

Emma jerked back, heart pounding.

---

Over the next two days, the unease only grew. A dark sedan sat idling near the house more than once. When Emma approached, it drove away.

Lila refused to look into mirrors. She avoided her toys, preferring to sit by the window with her knees to her chest. Once, Emma found her sketchbook full of drawings: a man with no face, standing in a doorway. The same figure, page after page.

On the third night, Emma was folding laundry when she heard her daughter whispering in her room. She froze, listening.

“I know. I’ll be ready.”

Emma pushed the door open. Lila sat on the floor, speaking to the empty corner of the room. She looked up calmly. “I wasn’t talking to you, Mommy.”

Emma’s hands shook. She grabbed her daughter, searching her pockets, desperate for answers. That was when she found the slip of paper: a train ticket, dated the day she vanished. From a station three cities away.

But the timestamp fell squarely inside those seven missing hours.

---

The next morning, Detective Harris returned. He looked exhausted, tie crooked, eyes rimmed with red. “We’ve enhanced the footage from Maple Street,” he said, setting his laptop on the table.

Emma’s stomach turned cold as the video played.

There was Lila, walking calmly down the sidewalk at 4:14. Then, static. The feed blinked, jumped — and there she was again at 11:17, standing at the edge of the frame.

“Watch closely,” Harris said.

Emma leaned in. Frame by frame, the video slowed. For an instant, just before the static swallowed the feed, Lila appeared to be holding someone’s hand. An adult. But every time the figure’s face neared the camera, the pixels warped and blurred, as though the footage itself refused to capture it.

Emma pressed her hand to her mouth. “What is that?”

Harris shook his head. “We don’t know.”

---

That night, Emma sat on the edge of Lila’s bed, tucking the blankets around her daughter. The rain tapped against the window. The house was too still, too watchful.

Lila’s eyes fluttered as she drifted toward sleep. Then she smiled faintly, the red ribbon slipping loose around her wrist.

“He told me you’ll come with me next time.”

Emma’s chest tightened, breath catching in her throat. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, staring at her daughter’s serene face in the dim light.

The clock ticked softly on the nightstand.

Each second felt like it was running out.