Page 125 of When the Storm Breaks
I can’t stop imagining Haiyden reading those same words, over and over, desperate for something more. Some piece of truth buried between the lines.
I keep searching, my hands shaking as I click on another headline.
This one’s worse.
“A few people at the party said they heard something, like, yelling for help. But the music was really loud, so I don’t know,” said one witness, who asked to remain anonymous. The police covered over five square miles of rugged terrain, but after weeks of investigation, no significant evidence was found. The active search has been closed, though the case remains open.
The words blur. My fingers tighten around my phone.
She just vanished.
No explanation. No closure. No trace. The missing pieces. The gaping holes. The unbearable stillness.
And the photos of her only make it worse.
She was beautiful—dark brown hair cut into a sharp bob, her smile bright, her eyes dark but alive. She looks so much like Haiyden. But where his face is shadowed and haunted, hers is playful. Open. Curious.
I imagine she was all the things Haiyden used to be, before grief took them from him.
I keep scrolling—more photos, more headlines—but it’s all the same.
Pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit.
Frustrated, I lock my phone and drop it into the nightstand drawer. But the temptation scratches at me, restless and constant. It won’t let me go.
I cave.
I grab it again, thumbing over the screen, opening social media despite myself.
It used to annoy me, how much everyone at work shared. Their weekends, their workouts, their picture-perfect brunches. While my life felt like it was nothing worth posting.
But now, I’m grateful for it.
I tap in Hannah’s username, scrolling past the usuals—a neatly plated meal, a sunrise hike, a gym mirror selfie—until I find what I’m looking for: a photo dump from her recent trip to Europe.
I flip through. France. Italy. A vineyard in Spain.
Then, a photo of Hannah and her sister, sitting outside a café in Paris. They’re laughing over espresso cups, the warm summer sun casting gold across their skin. It’s the kind of happiness that looks effortless. The kind that always feels just out of reach.
My heart pounds. I tap the photo. Her sister’s username pops up. My thumb hovers for half a second before clicking into it.
Her profile is public.
Guilt creeps in, but I push past it, scrolling anyway.
More travel photos. Candids. A beach photo. And… the lake.
The air in my lungs turns sour.
I swipe through the photos—familiar trees, the same rocky shoreline, a sky painted in long streaks of orange and pink.
My heart pounds harder, but there’s a strange feeling in my gut. Like I should remember something. Like the night in the photos should belong to me.
The last image is a group shot—arms slung over shoulders, summer clothes, sun-soaked skin.
And in the corner of the photo—
Willow.
