Noah hated those words.
Because Lily would never have left without saying goodbye.
The years passed.
The missing person posters faded. The police stopped coming. The neighbors stopped asking. But Margaret never gave up. Lily’s room remained untouched—her books on the desk, her blue jacket behind the door, her mirror covered in dust.
Every evening Margaret whispered:
— My daughter will be coming home.
Then, fifteen years later, Harold died.
The funeral was small. People called him « stern » and « old-fashioned. » Noah stood next to his mother and noticed something strange.
Margaret had cried for Lily for fifteen years.
But she did not cry for her father.
After the funeral, Noah and Daniel went to Harold’s old house to clear it out.
The house smelled of dust, medicine, and closed windows. Heavy curtains blocked the light. Family photos hung crookedly on the walls. Harold’s bedroom was at the end of the hall.
Noah entered and felt cold.
Daniel opened drawers while Noah stripped the bed. Then he noticed that the mattress looked uneven.
One corner was higher than the others.
He lifted them up.
First he saw old newspapers.
Then something pink.
Noah’s heart stopped.
He pulled it out slowly.
It was a piece of old fabric. Faded. Dirty. Almost falling apart.
But in one corner were three small white flowers.
Hand-embroidered.
Noah sank to his knees.
— Dad…
Daniel turned around.
– What is?
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