He Disappeared 12 Years Ago. Last Week, I Saw Him at the Train Station"

I was never the type to believe in miracles—or ghosts. But that all changed last week.

Twelve years ago, my best friend and cousin, Adil, disappeared without a trace. We were both 17, fresh out of school, and planning to move to Lahore to start college together. One day, we went to the market to buy books. I turned around for just a few seconds, distracted by a street performer. When I looked back, Adil was gone.

At first, we thought it was a prank. He was famous for them. But hours turned to days, and the police could find nothing. His phone was off. His ID was left at home. No CCTV footage. Just… nothing.

The town changed after that. My aunt and uncle moved away out of heartbreak. My own life spiraled for years—haunted by guilt and endless “what ifs.” I stopped going near that market, stopped trusting people, and eventually, stopped believing in closure.

But last week—everything changed.

I was waiting at the train station for a delayed service to Rawalpindi. The platform was crowded and noisy. I was scrolling through my phone, half-awake, when I felt it—an odd sensation, like someone was staring at me. You know that prickling feeling on your neck? That’s what it was.

I looked up.

About twenty feet away, standing by the tea stall, was a man with a grey hoodie, slightly hunched, and carrying a dusty old backpack.

He looked... familiar. Too familiar.

He turned his head slightly, and that’s when I saw him properly. My heart skipped a beat. My throat tightened.

It was Adil.

His face was older, but unmistakable—those same deep eyes, that crooked eyebrow from our childhood bicycle accident, and a small mole on his chin. I froze.

It felt like time stopped.

I stood up and shouted, “Adil!”

He turned, startled—eyes widening just slightly. He stared at me for a full second. Then, without saying a word, he turned and walked quickly toward the exit.

I pushed through people, yelling his name, but by the time I got to the gate—he was gone. Vanished. Again.

I waited for hours. Checked every camera, every tea stall, every bench. Nothing. No one had seen him. No trace.

For days, I’ve tried to convince myself I imagined it. Maybe I just wanted to see him. But it felt too real. That expression. That hesitation when he saw me. He knew who I was.

I filed a report again. The officer laughed nervously—“After 12 years?” But he promised to check. I knew he wouldn’t find anything.

Last night, something happened that pushed me over the edge.

I found an old shoebox of our childhood stuff—photos, movie tickets, coins we collected. Inside it was a note I had never seen before. Folded neatly. Dated the day after Adil disappeared.

It said, in his handwriting:

“I didn’t run away from you. I had no choice. One day, I’ll explain everything. Until then… don’t stop living.”

I sat there, holding that piece of paper, shaking. Who made him disappear? Why couldn't he come back? Why now?

I don’t have the answers.

But I know this: Adil is alive. And for some reason, he wanted me to know—now. Maybe he was trying to say goodbye again. Or maybe it was a warning. Or a clue.

I’ve started going back to that station every day. Sitting. Waiting. Watching.

Not just for Adil.

But for the truth.

Because some stories don’t end when people vanish. Sometimes, they begin again—on a crowded platform, with a familiar face in the distance… and a thousand unanswered questions in your heart. Since that day at the train station, I’ve become obsessed. I started visiting the places Adil used to love—our old school, the cricket ground near our neighborhood, and the tiny corner café where we used to eat fries after school. I even visited the abandoned house near the hilltop where we once carved our names on a stone.

People think I’ve lost my mind. My mother thinks I’m under emotional stress again. My friends offer sympathy, but I see the doubt in their eyes. They think I saw a stranger who looked like him. But I know better. That hesitation in his eyes—only someone who recognized me could show that.

Last night, I went through my old phone messages. Most were silly chats and meme forwards. But in one thread from a year ago, I found something strange—a message from an unknown number that read:
“You’ll find the truth at the same place we buried the blue marble.”