The Day My Five‑Year‑Old Disappeared

When I woke up, it was already noon the next day.

Sunlight slanted through the curtains, blinding my eyes. I lay on the big bed in the master bedroom, wrapped in a soft silk comforter. On the nightstand sat a glass of warm water and two white pills.

"You're up."

Chester pushed the door open. He wore an apron and held a bowl of porridge. He was still so handsome—sharp brows, bright eyes, and a straight nose—the same face I had fallen for the first time back in college.

He sat on the edge of the bed and gently blew on the porridge. "The doctor gave you these. They're supposed to help you tell delusions from reality. Here, take the medicine and finish your breakfast."

I stared at him. Inside my head, two voices fought.

One said, "Take it. Maybe you really are sick. Everyone says so, even your parents," while the other screamed, "He's lying! He's lying!"

I opened my mouth obediently, popped the pills in, and drank the water.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "That's my girl. I want you to know that whether we have a child or not, I'll always love you, Sophie. If you really want a kid, we can adopt one when you get better."

"Okay," I croaked.

Chester looked pleased. He reminded me to rest, then went to the study to handle some paperwork. As soon as his footsteps faded, I bolted into the bathroom and forced myself to gag.

When I took the pills earlier, I had pressed them under my tongue. Two white tablets landed in the toilet and were quickly flushed away. I washed my face and stared at the woman in the mirror—pale, hollow-eyed, and hollow-cheeked.

If I really were crazy, why were my memories so vivid?

Dorothy had a strawberry-shaped birthmark on her right buttock. She liked to grind her teeth in her sleep, and she hated eating carrots. These details were too oddly specific to be delusions.

No, this couldn't be. Something was wrong for sure.

I stepped out of the bedroom and drifted through the apartment like a lost soul. Everything had been cleaned so thoroughly that there wasn't a trace left of a child ever having lived here.

My mind was on the edge of collapse. My nerves screamed, every sensation raw and disorienting.

Lately, Chester had been busy and was always in the study late into the night. Our conversations had grown shorter and fewer. Even his attitude toward me had subtly changed.

I knew it had to do with my "condition". He didn't want me disturbing him, so he kept me away from the study as much as possible. I respected that until…

Meow…

A soft, almost plaintive meow cut through the silence. It was Pudding, our five-year-old cat, the same age as Dorothy. We had gotten it the year she was born, and they had grown up together.

Pudding padded slowly in front of the balcony. When it passed the so-called study, it stopped. It crouched at the doorway, letting out that sweet, coaxing purr it always used when it wanted a treat.

Then, it did something that made my blood run cold. It stood on its hind legs, front paws gripping about 40 inches above the floor, right at the height Dorothy used to reach.

Before, Dorothy would hide in her room, eating snacks without sharing, and Pudding would paw at the door the same way, begging for a handout.

If there was no child inside but cold, lifeless bookshelves, who was it begging for?

Just then, Chester stepped out of the study, nearly tripping over Pudding. His face flickered with annoyance as he kicked it aside. "Why does this damn cat keep coming here?"