Ava didn't sleep that night.
Not because she didn't try.
But because Eli's final words looped in her mind like a broken record—skipping at just the right moment to deny her peace.
"You should ask your mom what really happened the night your dad left."
Her room was silent except for the ticking wall clock and the occasional car sighing past her window. Each tick, each breath of traffic, sounded louder than they should've.
Because silence, when burdened with questions, became unbearable noise.
She stared at the ceiling.
The familiar cracks in the paint looked like veins, stretching outward from the center light fixture like something trying to escape.
Like her thoughts.
She sat up at 3:27 a.m., rubbed her temples, and whispered into the dark:
"What the hell do you know, Eli?"
There were pieces missing from her memory—blanks she always chalked up to being too young. Or to trauma's cruel mercy: selective erasure.
Her father had vanished one night when she was twelve.
No fight.
No warning.
Just an empty chair at the dinner table and a note that said nothing.
Literally. A blank sheet of paper folded in half. Like even his goodbye had been unfinished.
And her mother?
Cold.
Quiet.
Never spoke about it.
It was like the man never existed.
Ava had learned early not to ask questions.
But now—after Eli's words—those old questions refused to stay buried.
She got up, crossed the room, and opened the drawer she hadn't touched in years.
It was full of scraps: movie tickets, photo corners, an old necklace, a shoelace from her first pair of boots—things only sentimental people keep.
Things she told herself didn't matter anymore.
At the bottom was a torn photo.
Her parents.
Smiling.
And her—tiny, missing her front teeth.
It was taken at the annual town fair. She could tell from the garish backdrop of cotton candy and string lights.
She turned it over.
No date.
No message.
Just a faint ink smudge in the bottom corner.
Like someone started to write… and changed their mind.
---
By the time the sun cracked through the curtains, Ava hadn't moved from the floor.
The photo still sat in her lap.
And her decision, like the daylight, was sharp and clear.
She was going to find out the truth.
Even if it meant setting fire to the stories she'd been told.
---
After a lukewarm shower and coffee that tasted like regret, Ava left the house.
Her mom wasn't home.
She rarely was in the mornings—ever since picking up that second job.
Which made today the perfect time to start digging.
And there was only one place to begin.
The library.
Not for books.
But for archives.
Old newspapers.
Local town records.
Anything that might hold a headline or police report from that year.
She hadn't been inside the main branch since sophomore year. Too many people. Too many memories.
But today, she walked through the sliding doors with a quiet determination.
The librarian was a thin woman with glasses shaped like butterfly wings.
She gave Ava a polite nod but didn't ask questions when Ava requested access to the microfilm archive.
No one ever asked why someone wanted to look at the past.
Because most people didn't.
---
Two hours later, Ava had skimmed through a year's worth of weekly editions of The Burnside Herald.
Small town newspaper. Six pages on average. Half of it ads.
But on March 14th, ten years ago, there was something that caught her breath.
"Local Man Reported Missing. Police Investigate Possible Voluntary Disappearance."
There was no photo.
Just a short paragraph.
His name: Daniel Winters.
Her father.
It described how he hadn't shown up for work two days in a row.
No signs of struggle at the house.
No contact with friends or family.
"Police believe the subject may have left voluntarily."
That was it.
No follow-up.
No public plea.
No updates in the weeks that followed.
She flipped through the rest of March. Then April. Then May.
Nothing.
It was like the story had been erased mid-sentence.
Or buried.
She stared at the article again.
"Possible Voluntary Disappearance."
That didn't sound like a man who planned to leave a child behind.
That sounded like an excuse.
Her jaw clenched.
Then she noticed something strange.
The byline on the article.
"Contributed by E. Moreau."
Eli's last name was Moreau.
Her pulse skipped.
Coincidence?
Maybe.
But nothing about this felt coincidental anymore.
---
Back outside, the spring air felt colder than it should've.
Ava leaned against the library wall, staring at the cracked sidewalk like it held the answers.
Could Eli be related?
Was that why he had her book?
Why he knew?
She needed to talk to him.
Not in vague, poetic metaphors this time.
But directly.
She pulled out her phone.
Opened his contact—the one he'd casually added under "Coffee Boy."
Typed:
"We need to talk. Tonight. Rooftop."
Sent.
No emoji.
No pretense.
Just need.
A few seconds later, the reply came:
"I'll be there. Bring questions."
She exhaled, heart hammering against her ribs.
Something was unraveling.
And this time, she wasn't afraid of it.
She was ready.
Ready to dig.
Ready to confront.
Ready to remember.
---
The rooftop of the old hardware store had always felt like a secret.
No one went there anymore—not since the store closed two years ago and the town moved on like it never mattered.
But tonight, the rooftop felt alive.
The wind played with the ends of Ava's jacket. The sky above was heavy with clouds but refused to rain—like it was holding its breath for the conversation about to unfold.
Eli was already there.
Sitting on the edge like always.
One leg dangling, one foot planted. Like he couldn't decide between falling and staying.
He didn't look at her as she climbed up.
Didn't say hi.
Just handed her a small flask.
She took it, sniffed, and gave him a look. "Seriously? Whiskey?"
"Relax," he said, smirking. "Just sweet tea. But I knew you'd judge me either way."
She didn't smile.
He noticed.
"Alright," he said, sighing. "Straight to the ghosts then."
Ava leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Was it your dad who wrote that article? E. Moreau?"
Eli tilted his head like he wasn't surprised.
"Not my dad," he said slowly. "My uncle. But close enough. He used to run stories for The Herald back then."
Her voice tightened. "So he knew about my dad?"
Eli's gaze drifted to the skyline. "He did. But he wasn't allowed to print everything. There were… limitations."
"Like what?"
"Like when people in this town don't want something printed, it doesn't get printed."
Ava narrowed her eyes. "That's not journalism. That's erasure."
He looked at her then—really looked. "Exactly."
Silence settled between them again. But this time it was loaded.
Ava's mind raced. "So what really happened to my dad?"
Eli exhaled. "That's not a question you ask. It's one you dig for."
She took a slow step forward. "Don't play cryptic. Not tonight."
His voice dropped. "There's more than one truth in this town. The kind people tell in daylight, and the kind they whisper when they think no one's listening."
Her pulse quickened.
Eli continued. "Your dad… he wasn't planning to leave. He loved you. He was planning to take you with him."
Ava's stomach turned cold. "Take me where?"
Eli shook his head. "Someplace safe."
"From what?"
He paused.
Then, finally: "From your mom."
The rooftop spun.
Ava gripped the wall behind her.
"That's not possible," she said. "My mom—she may be cold, but—"
"She wasn't always cold," Eli interrupted. "Not until after he disappeared."
Ava stared at him, throat dry. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Eli said quietly, "that maybe your dad didn't leave. Maybe he vanished because someone made him vanish."
---
The wind howled, as if trying to pull his words away before they could settle.
Ava shook her head. "You don't know that."
"I don't," he admitted. "But I've seen the police report. The real one. The one that never made it to the paper."
Her heart stuttered. "What was in it?"
Eli hesitated. "They found signs of a struggle in your dad's car. Scratches. Blood. But the file was marked 'closed' two weeks later."
"No suspect?"
He shook his head. "No follow-up. No interviews. Nothing."
Ava's breath caught. "You think my mom was involved?"
"I think someone was," Eli said. "And your mom has more connections in this town than most people realize."
Ava sank to the ground, knees drawn to her chest.
The night didn't feel like night anymore—it felt like a shadow swallowing the version of her life she'd always believed.
Eli sat beside her, his voice softer now.
"My uncle tried to push the story. Said there were things that didn't add up. But the paper got pressure. Threats. He dropped it. And then he quit."
Ava turned toward him. "Why are you telling me this now?"
He didn't look at her.
"Because," he said, "you're the only one still looking. Everyone else gave up. Or looked away."
She closed her eyes.
Suddenly the memory came rushing back—the sound of glass breaking, her mother screaming into a phone, Ava hiding under the stairs, clutching her stuffed fox.
She'd been told it was just a fight. Just a bad night.
But what if it wasn't?
She opened her eyes. "What do I do?"
Eli stood. "You dig. Quietly. Carefully."
"And if I find something?"
He met her gaze, eyes unreadable.
"Then you decide whether the truth is worth what it costs."
---
They walked down together, neither speaking.
At the bottom of the fire escape, Eli paused.
"One more thing," he said, voice low.
Ava turned.
"You said your dad left a blank note."
She nodded.
Eli reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded paper.
Unfolded it.
Held it out.
Her hands trembled as she took it.
It wasn't blank.
It was the same size. Same fold. Same paper.
But this one had writing.
Just five words.
"She won't let me go."
Ava felt the ground slip beneath her.
It was his handwriting.
She recognized the way he curved the "s."
She looked up, voice barely there. "Where did you get this?"
Eli looked tired.
"My uncle kept things. I wasn't supposed to find it."
Ava clutched the paper like it might burn her.
Her dad hadn't left without a word.
He'd tried to say something.
And now…
She had to find out what—before this town buried the rest.
---