He was behind me... until he wasn't.

That path was never dangerous.

There's a river path that runs behind my grandmother's property. We've been following it since we were kids—just a quiet dirt trail behind the water's edge, shaded by tall oaks and whispering grass. Birds chirped overhead. The water moved lazily. It never seemed threatening.

My little brother, Zane, loved it.

He was seven—small, curious, always falling behind to study beetles or pick mushrooms with a stick. I was twelve and assigned to "watch it" every time we went there.

That June afternoon felt like someone else's.

We ate peanut butter sandwiches, played tag in the field, and then he begged me to take him to the river trail before dark.

“I’ll hurry,” he promised, grabbing his favorite red flashlight.

He always carried it. Even in broad daylight.

The Trail and the Laughter

We set off, him moving forward then falling back, stopping to pick up shiny rocks or throw sticks into the river. I warned him not to get too close to the bank—the river looked still but was moving faster than he could.

He didn’t argue. He never did.

We were probably a mile away when I stopped to lace up my boots.

“Don’t move,” I told him.

“I won’t,” he said.

I just looked down for a second.

I looked up and...

He was gone.

No sound, no splash, no sign.

I called his name.

First, casually - "Zane! Come on, stop messing around!" - then loudly. Then loudly.

I ran forward along the path. Nothing. I doubled back. Still nothing.

No rustling of leaves, no laughter from behind the tree. Just the wind and the soft silence of the river.

I looked down the slope where the path met the water. There were footprints - two small ones in the mud.

But nothing else.

No splash. No scream. Just gone.

Search

I screamed for help.

It took my uncle and the local police an hour to arrive. My grandmother, pale as chalk, grabbed hold of Zane's sandals as if she could understand something.

They searched for days.

Boats. Drones Dogs Diving Psychology Every trick a desperate family can try, we tried. But the river kept its secret.

There were no witnesses. No signs of struggle. Not even bubbles.

Just... absence.

Theories and whispers.

Everyone had an idea.

He was lost wandering in the woods.

He fell into the river and was swept away.

He was taken.

He never existed.

I was lying.

I did something.

I stopped talking after a while. Not because I had nothing to say — but because no one really listened.

They were looking for something tangible. But what happened to Zane was water. It slipped through every explanation.

The light that shouldn't have been there.

A year later, I returned.

Alone.

I stood where I had last seen him. The river looked the same. The path looked the same.

Then I saw something.

In the weeds on the riverbank – barely visible in the fading light – a flicker.

Red

I climbed the slope. Carefully. Slowly. Heartbeat in my ears.

It was his flashlight.

Still working. Still glowing.

But the batteries were dead. They had died the day he disappeared.

I picked it up, shaking it. It was warm. And it was turned on.

I called his name again, this time knowing no one would answer.

Now, I see.

People still walk the river path. They say it is peaceful. Quiet. Healing.

But I know better.

I walk it too. Every June. Every year.

And sometimes – just sometimes – I hear two sets of footsteps. Mine… and a smaller pair, back and forth.

When I turn around...

The path is always empty.