(nw) Their daughter vanished in 1990 at her graduation…

He felt a pang of guilt for leaving her with the cleanup, but something drew him to Emily, to answers for questions he hadn’t even fully formed. The door closed behind him, and he stepped into the foggy morning, clutching the yearbook tightly. John drove through the winding roads, following Nancy’s directions to the apartment complex where Emily Thompson now lived.

The drive took about 20 minutes, leading him from the town center to a modest neighborhood with several apartment buildings. He parked and scanned the area, trying to figure out where Emily’s unit might be. There were about a dozen buildings in various states of upkeep.

Some looked permanent, with small gardens. John approached a man washing his ground-floor apartment windows. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Emily Thompson. Do you know where her unit is?” The man pointed to a blue-and-white building at the far end of the lot. “Unit nine, you’ll find Emily there. Nice lady… kind-hearted.” John thanked him and headed to the building. It was modest but well-kept, with a small potted plant by the entrance.

He climbed to the second floor, found unit nine, took a deep breath, and knocked. A moment later, the door opened. A woman in her mid-forties stood before him.

Her blonde hair was now streaked with gray, and her face bore the faint lines of middle age. She looked at John with polite confusion, no sign of recognition. “Can I help you?” she asked.

John suddenly realized they wouldn’t recognize each other. The last time they’d met, Emily was a teenager, and he was 22 years younger. “Emily, it’s John Peterson, Mary’s father.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, then filled with a mix of emotions—recognition, sadness, warmth. “John! Oh my gosh, come in, please.” She stepped back, opening the door wider. John entered a compact but cozy space. The apartment was tidy, decorated with personal touches—photos, small plants, colorful cushions.

“Sit down. Want some coffee?” Emily gestured to a small dining area. Coffee would be great. “Thanks,” John said, settling onto a chair. As Emily prepared the coffee, John noticed her movements were deliberate, as if she was giving herself time to process this unexpected visit. “What brings you here after all these years?” she asked, setting a steaming mug in front of him and sitting across from him.

John pulled out the yearbook he’d brought. “I found this today while going through Mary’s room. Realized I’d never opened it before.” Emily’s eyes lingered on the book. “I remember this,” she said softly, reaching out to touch the cover. John opened to Mary’s profile and pointed to the note about returning the book.

“This caught my attention,” he said. “Did you ever return it?” Emily’s expression softened into a sad smile. “No, I didn’t. I was such a forgetful kid back then, and Mary knew it. She always teased me about it.” She stood and went to a storage bin under her bed.

After rummaging for a moment, she pulled out a worn copy of The Secret Garden, an illustrated classic edition. “I kept forgetting to give it back, and after she disappeared, I couldn’t part with it. It’s the last thing I have of her.”

Emily held the book gently, as if it were fragile. “You don’t mind if I keep it, do you? It’s meant a lot to me over the years.” John nodded, understanding completely. “Of course, you can keep it.” He took the book when Emily handed it to him and carefully opened it.

The pages were yellowed with age, but the illustrations remained vibrant. Flipping through, he stopped at a page used as a bookmark. It looked like a torn-out page from a teen fashion magazine…