Ella was my twin. We weren’t just “born on the same day” twins—we were inseparable. We shared a bed, shared thoughts. If she cried, I cried. If I laughed, she laughed louder. She was the brave one, and I followed.
On the day she vanished, our parents were at work, and we were staying with our grandmother.
I was sick—feverish, throat burning. Grandma sat on the edge of my bed with a cool washcloth. “Just rest, baby,” she said. “Ella will play quietly.”
Ella was in the corner with her red ball, bouncing it against the wall, humming softly. I remember the thump of the ball and the sound of rain beginning outside.
I fell asleep.
For illustrative purposes only
When I woke, the house felt wrong. Too quiet. No ball. No humming.
“Grandma?” I called.
She rushed in, hair mussed, face tight. “Where’s Ella?” I asked.
