In the video, they crossed the threshold and headed towards the bus stop.

They boarded a city bus together and disappeared.

“I need to speak with Maya.” I turned to the principal. “May I?”

“Maya no longer attends this school,” the video stated. “She transferred suddenly. That was her last day here.”

***

I drove straight to Maya’s house.

A man opened the door.

“That was his last day here.”

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“Can I see Maya, please? She was with my son the day she disappeared. I need to know if she said anything to him.”

He frowned at me for a long time. Then, something in his face seemed to close up.

“Maya isn’t here. She’s staying with her grandparents for a while.” He started to close the door, but stopped. “I’ll ask her if she knows anything, okay?”

I stood there, not knowing what to say, with an instinct telling me to insist more, but I didn’t know how.

Then he closed the door.

Something in her face seemed to close up.

The following weeks were the worst of my life.

We put out flyers and posted in every local Facebook group and community forum we could find.

The police were also searching, but as the months passed, the search slowed down. Eventually, everyone started calling Daniel a fugitive.

I knew my son. Daniel wasn’t the type of boy who would disappear without a word.

And I would never stop looking for him, no matter how long it took.

Everyone started calling Daniel a fugitive.

Almost
a year later, I was in another city for a business meeting.

Finally, I forced myself to return to a sort of imitation of normal life: work, shopping, calls with my sister on Sunday nights.

After the meeting ended, I stopped at a small coffee shop.

I ordered a coffee and waited at the counter. The door opened behind me and I turned around.

An elderly man had entered. He moved slowly, counting coins in the palm of his hand, bundled up against the cold. He looked like a homeless person.

And she was wearing my son’s jacket.