For fifteen years, I lived with an ache I couldn’t shake. My sister Leah vanished one night without a single trace, leaving behind nothing but a missed call on my phone. I replayed her last voicemail over and over, haunted by the thought that if I had picked up, things might have been different. The police had no leads, the trail went cold, and slowly, everyone else in my family accepted the unthinkable. But I couldn’t. I held on to hope, even when it seemed irrational. Then, on an ordinary evening while boarding a late train home, the extraordinary happened — a moment that made my heart stop.

Across the aisle sat a woman with familiar eyes, the exact ones I’d grown up looking into. She lifted her head from a book, and I noticed the scar on her neck — the same scar Leah got when we were kids after falling off her bike. My entire body froze. “Leah!” I shouted, standing before I could think. She looked startled, as if the name meant something to her but didn’t belong to her. Slowly, she rose from her seat, her lips trembling. “I don’t know that name,” she whispered, “My name is Anna.” But deep down, I knew.