My brother vanished 13 years ago without a trace. One day he was part of our family, the next he was gone. We searched for years—flyers, hospitals, rumors—until hope faded and silence became normal.
Last night at a gas station, I saw a man wearing my brother’s leather jacket. Every detail matched—the patches, the worn sleeve, even his initials. I called out my brother’s name.
He froze. Turned around. Our eyes met—and his face drained of color. Then he ran to his car and sped away.
Moments later, my phone buzzed. A text from my mother: “I had a bad dream. You disappeared, just like your brother. Please come home.”
The timing felt wrong. Terrifyingly wrong.
Tonight, I returned to the gas station, waiting for answers. No sign of him. Just silence.
I haven’t told my mother. She’s suffered enough. But I know this story isn’t over.
Because now I’m starting to wonder—maybe my brother didn’t disappear… maybe he’s been hiding. And maybe he doesn’t want to be found.
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