Ava steps inside her home, closing the door with a soft click. She pauses for a moment, anticipating the familiar buzz of activity that usually fills the house., but instead, the house is quiet. "Hello?" she calls out, her voice bouncing off the walls and fading into the emptiness. The unease from the diner sinks deeper inside her, feeling more familiar than the stark quiet of these rooms. Photographs that once filled the hallway are gone—only empty frames remain. The air feels heavy with something she can't quite name, weighing on her. Her heart races as one thought beats in her mind—"Is anyone home?"—but all she hears is her own breath cutting through the stillness. The knot of anxiety tightens in response to the loneliness that surrounds her.
The hallway stretches ahead, darker than it should be, unfamiliar. Her footsteps echo in the silence, loud and unnatural. "Mom?" she calls softly, her voice barely above a whisper, testing the silence rather than truly expecting an answer. She passes the empty frames, each one unsettling—like they're missing something important. She reaches out to touch the wall, but her hands tremble too much to feel steady.
Ava steps into the living room, a space that typically buzzes with her mother Maya's warm energy. The throw pillows sit meticulously arranged on the sofa, devoid of the usual disarray from Maya's afternoon coffee ritual. Even the familiar stack of mail has vanished, leaving an unsettling emptiness in its wake. Ava instinctively wraps her arms around herself, as if trying to contain the rising tide of panic within. She focuses on regulating her breath, each inhale and exhale deliberate, as though she could exert control over this moment when everything else feels chaotic. Her gaze scans the room, searching for any hint of life or evidence of Maya's hurried departure.
The house seems to wait with her, every second a small eternity as Ava forces herself to move again. She goes upstairs, the rise and fall of her feet on each step mimicking the rise and fall of her hope. When she reaches Maya's bedroom, the door creaks slightly, the only protest in a house gone too quiet. The bed is made, the closet full of clothes, yet everything personal seems erased. Her eyes find Maya's favorite silver pendant on the dresser, more lost than left behind. Ava's breathing comes faster now, too much for her to hold.
It's as if her own movements are all that keep time progressing. Ava checks the bathroom and the spare room, then her own, her legs shaky beneath her as if threatening to drop her at any moment. She grabs at the doorframes for support, then releases them like they too might vanish if she holds on too tightly. The echo of Maya's name follows her from room to room, diminishing each time she says it, each time there's nothing to answer back. The panic in her chest is a live thing now, claws and teeth and breath.
Back downstairs, the kitchen offers no solace. Plates, forks, and the green mugs her mother collects line the cabinets, their presence strange against the absence of everything else. Ava reaches out, pulls one mug down from the shelf, then puts it back, convinced for a moment that it's the next thing to disappear. When she sees Maya's car keys still on their hook by the door, a flicker of relief fights through her dread. But Maya's purse is missing, and so is any sense of what could have happened.
Ava sinks into one of the kitchen chairs, her body heavy with the weight of realization. Her gaze drifts to the empty space above the fridge, a stark reminder of a missing photo that should have been there. With trembling fingers, she pulls out her phone, struggling to steady her hand on the touch screen as she dials Liam's number. When his voice crackles through the line, it feels like a lifeline, yet it nearly unravels her composure. "I can't find my mom," she admits, her voice quaking as panic threatens to spill over. "Is your dad home? Maybe he can help." Liam's reply comes through muffled and distant, as if there's an invisible barrier between them. "No. He's… no. And all our family photos are gone."
The news hits Ava hard, like a punch. She feels herself crumpling, like a burnt-out star. She shuts her eyes, trying to find words, but all she can do is whisper. "Okay," she says to Liam, her shaky voice showing what she can't say.
She holds her phone like it's the only real thing left in the world. Maya is gone. Liam's dad is gone. They're all gone. The call ends, leaving Ava more alone than the silence in the house. She presses her forehead to the cool wood of the table, arms wrapped tight as if to hold herself together. Eventually, movement returns, awkward and new, like she has to learn it from scratch. Her phone goes in her pocket. Her body follows her feet. She pushes into the outside world, She slid into the worn leather seat of her mom's car, the familiar scent of vanilla air freshener mingling with the faint metallic tang that lingered in Clearwater. The engine roared to life, vibrating beneath her fingers as she gripped the steering wheel. Sunlight poured through the windshield, casting a warm glow that felt almost too bright for what lay ahead. She adjusted the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of her reflection—eyes wide with anticipation and an edge of anxiety.
As she pulled out of the driveway, the tires crunched over gravel before merging onto the cracked asphalt road leading toward Liam's house. Pine trees lined either side, their shadows stretching like dark fingers across the pavement. With each turn, she could feel her heart quickening, a mix of excitement and dread swirling within her as she navigated through the sleepy town. The community center loomed in her periphery—a reminder of secrets hidden just beneath Clearwater's surface—
It's happening to Liam too, she realized, feeling a knot tighten in her stomach. Maybe we can figure this out together, she thought, but uncertainty gnawed at her. Could they really solve this? And what if they couldn't?
Ava pulls up to Liam's house. The truck in the driveway looms like another unasked question. It confirms the worst—the reality she doesn't want to face. Liam waits on the porch, arms crossed in an unconscious guard, a single mark of certainty against the unknown. Ava joins him, her body still not fully hers, still unsure in this new and fragile world. The truck, like a massive stone monument, feels both ominous and left behind. When she reaches Liam, it's as if they've crossed a finish line they didn't know they were racing toward. Her voice is unsure. "Is it...?"
Liam's concern is rigid in his stance, his crossed arms pulling tighter. "The same," he says, leading Ava inside. "Just like you said. Gone."
The first thing she notices is the wall where a huge family portrait used to hang, replaced now by a frame as empty as her own house.
"It's so quiet." Ava's words catch like a burr in her throat. The world feels abandoned.
They pass more evidence of absence—a blank spot above the mantel, photo-less spaces like shadow boxes around the living room. Ava hugs herself against the growing panic, struggling to connect what's happening. "And the truck," she says, trying to piece things together. "Why would he—?"
"I don't know." Liam's voice is blunt, his movements methodical. He checks the locks on the front windows. "Everything else is here. Just like you said." His need to maintain control shows in the way he moves, deliberate and sure, as if control could solve this problem.
In the kitchen, another blank wall accuses them. This used to be a corkboard covered with Ethan's reminders and construction site notes. Now it's just bare. "It's like they never existed," Ava says, her voice quieter, not wanting the words to be true.
"Don't." Liam interrupts her, the edge in his voice showing. "We'll figure it out."
Ava nods, the gesture more an attempt to reassure herself than a belief in Liam's words. Her mind races through possibilities, but everything seems too big, too impossible to grasp.
He heads down the hallway, checks the side door. "I thought it might be some kind of break-in," he says, unconsciously crossing his arms again as he turns back to Ava. "But who takes pictures and leaves everything else?"
She knows he doesn't expect an answer, but the uncertainty in his voice is a new and unsettling thing. Ava wants to help, to say something comforting or wise, but nothing feels like enough.
The kitchen phone rings, startling them both. Liam reaches it first. "Sophie?"
Ava watches his face tighten as he listens, and a moment later, the phone is in her hands. Sophie's voice is on the other end, rapid and strained.
"Did you see the fog rolling in? The humidity must be 90%."
Ava tries to keep her voice steady, though it feels like everything is dissolving around them. "Did it happen there, too?"
"Did what happen? If you're talking about the storm front, it's supposed to rain tonight. They predict it every day. Statistically, they'll be correct eventually."
"Sophie."
The silence on the line is long, then Sophie's voice changes. It's more clipped, focused.
"They're gone, Ava. Just like you said."
Ava feels something inside her drop. She's grateful for the confirmation, for the lack of ambiguity, even though it comes with an additional weight. "Are you okay?"
"Meet me here."
The line goes dead before Ava can respond, and she stands there holding the phone, another empty thing. Liam takes it from her hands, puts it back on the receiver. She can see the shift in his expression, his need to protect her and Sophie both.
"We should go," he says.
The world seems to conspire against them as they drive through Clearwater. The familiar streets, named after trees, feel foreign now. The sky is the strange color of waiting rain, neither light nor dark, and the thickening fog makes everything appear slightly unreal. Ava keeps one hand on her arm, a comfort to hold on to as Liam navigates through town.
When they reach Sophie's house, it feels too similar to bear. The empty frames are ghosts of familiar objects, the absence of personal items the same refrain in a different key. Sophie stands in the living room with a notebook, her expression more controlled than Ava expected.
She meets them at the door, her voice breathless and hurried. "Everything but the furniture and books. And the clocks. Whoever did this didn't care about clocks."
Liam checks the windows and locks with practiced efficiency. "You sure she's gone? Maybe she—"
Sophie's eyes flash with frustration, interrupting him. "You think my mom leaves home without telling me?"
The tension between them is palpable, the difference in their reactions as clear as Ava's own heartbeats. "She's gone," Ava says softly, as much to herself as to her friends.
Sophie doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she flips through her notebook, then asks a string of precise questions. "Did your parents leave behind jewelry? Letters? Anything sentimental?"
Ava thinks of Maya's silver pendant, Ethan's truck, how everything was untouched except for personal traces. "It's like they wanted to make it look like..." Her voice trails off.
"Like they vanished," Liam finishes, his jaw tight. "They took the things that would prove they were real."
Sophie writes something in her notebook, then looks at them both, her voice finally cracking. "Why would they do this? Why all of them?"
No one answers her, and the silence in the room is heavier than the thick air outside.
Ava's mind feels like it's shattering under pressure, too many possibilities exploding at once, none of them real enough to hold. She's losing time. Losing direction. Everything. It's like they've stumbled into a forgotten chapter of history. A new kind of loneliness takes hold of her as she leaves Liam's house, a desperate solitude of being the ones left behind. This has never happened before, never even felt possible. Her sense of self frays with the unraveling world. Each moment stretches like years and like nothing. In the house, in the car, the only constant is loss.
The drive back to Ava's is surreal. Shadows stretch across Clearwater's streets, mimicking the darkness inside her. She clutches the steering wheel, afraid to release it, afraid of what she might find waiting for them. The fog is thicker now, its heavy silence a force of its own. They park in the driveway, but the truck's empty bulk remains impenetrable as stone. Ava hesitates, not wanting to face the emptiness again.
"It's okay," Liam says, breaking the stillness and reaching for the door. "We'll figure this out."
Sophie gathers her notebook, holding it close like a shield. "We should start by listing what we know."
Ava's voice is a whisper, almost lost in the fog as they approach the front door. "We don't know anything."
But she lets them lead, and they step into the house. The silence is more profound now, an entity that occupies the space once filled with life. Ava turns on lights as they move through the hallway, chasing shadows to prove they're just shadows, trying to make the house feel less foreign, less hostile.
Sophie examines the frames on the walls, fingers hovering over them as if they might offer some tactile clue. "If it's a prank, they've gone to extraordinary lengths," she says, gesturing at the emptiness like an accusation. "Who puts them back up with nothing in them?"
Ava stands frozen, watching her friends investigate, watching them cope in ways she can't. Her helplessness grows, a living thing with claws that sink deep.
"My dad's truck is still here." Liam paces the living room, his voice edged with frustration. "He wouldn't leave it behind willingly."
Ava can't answer him. She feels the weight of expectation, the pressure to do something. But what? Her head swims with impossibilities, each more slippery than the last. Her pulse beats loud and erratic in her ears.
"We should call the police," Liam says. "Report them missing."
"And tell them what?" Sophie's voice sharpens. "That our parents vanished into thin air? They're just as likely to think we had something to do with it."
Liam turns on her, the tension sparking. "You'd rather do nothing?"
"No," Sophie snaps, "I'd rather understand what's happening."
Ava listens to them like they're distant echoes, her focus split between their argument and the eerie stillness around her. It's hard to breathe. She presses a hand to her chest as if to calm the storm beneath her ribs.
"We could wait," she finally says, forcing the words past the knot in her throat. "See if they come back."
Both of them look at her, surprised. She knows what they see: someone fragile, someone who isn't holding up like they are. "At least for tonight," she adds, needing them to agree, needing to do something that isn't driving through this strange new world in search of answers she can't find.
The logic of her plan comes together like a patchwork, barely holding. She knows it's weak, but it's all she has. "If they did this, maybe they'll tell us why."
"They didn't just do this." Liam's voice is firm, insisting. "This isn't normal."
Sophie's eyes narrow, calculating possibilities. "And that means?"
The ground feels shaky beneath Ava. She grasps for a solution, finds only more questions. "You said it at the diner," she tells Sophie. "A frontal system, right? A storm."
Sophie's eyes light with understanding and frustration. "You think this is weather related?"
"No," Ava says, the desperation slipping through, "I think it means they're planning on coming back. Soon. Tonight. Why else would they leave their cars? Or the rest of the house?"
Liam gives her a long look, doubt and determination wrestling behind his eyes. Finally, he nods. "Okay," he says, "but if they're not back by morning, we call the police. Agreed?"
Sophie hesitates, then joins him. "Agreed."
Ava nods too, hoping this small victory will hold long enough for her to breathe again. She feels a momentary relief, then a fresh wave of anxiety as she imagines the empty hours stretching before them.
"One night," Sophie says, repeating the decision like a mathematical proof. Her voice carries a mix of resolve and doubt, balanced perfectly between the two.
Ava finally manages a shaky nod. "One night." It's the only certainty she has, and even it feels temporary.
The three of them move through the house together, every room a fresh reminder of their parents' absence. Ava notices things she missed in her earlier panic—signs that this was planned, deliberate. Her mother's organized way of leaving everything ready for her. A casserole in the fridge with Ava's name on it, taped neatly to the foil. Clothes missing, but nothing else touched. Somehow it makes it worse.
Sophie's observations turn into a stream of thought. "There must be a reason for all of this. It's not random. They've been planning this for a while, maybe longer than we realize."
"Then why wouldn't they tell us?" Liam asks. He can't stand not knowing, the uncertainty gnawing at him like a physical pain. His need for answers shows in every line of his body, the set of his shoulders, the way his arms remain crossed, protecting or withholding.
"Because they knew we'd try to stop them," Ava suggests. Her voice sounds small to her own ears, but the logic fits, even if it doesn't bring comfort. "Whatever this is, they think it's important."
The implications are too large, too incomprehensible. They're left to fill in the blanks with guesses that feel like they might tear open more than they cover.
They return to the living room, where the air feels heavier, like it's pressing in on them. Ava lowers herself onto the couch, exhaustion overtaking the panic but not replacing it. The world has shifted, and she is a stranger in it. Her mind circles the same thoughts, over and over, spiraling and tightening and fraying all at once.
Sophie is next to her, still talking, still analyzing. "The fog, the shadows—it has to be connected to this morning. Maybe something in the air. It could be affecting our perception, the way it does with heat waves."
Liam drops onto the floor, leaning against the sofa, his resolve hard as stone. "You think we're hallucinating? That doesn't explain the pictures."
"Or maybe it's some kind of—" Ava pauses, not sure she wants to voice the thought. But the day's events have broken the seal on what she considers possible. "Some kind of... magic?"
Liam looks at her like he doesn't know who she is. Or maybe like he never knew, and he's just realizing it. "You're serious."
"Think about it," Ava insists. She surprises herself with the strength of her conviction. "The reflections at the diner. The cold. It wasn't normal."
"Even if that were true," Sophie counters, "why would our parents disappear? Why take the pictures and nothing else?"
Ava's reply is quieter, full of doubt. "I don't know. But it's better than having no idea at all."
They sit with that uncertainty, each of them processing it in their own way. Ava wraps her arms around herself again, that familiar gesture offering a small measure of comfort. She wonders if this is how it will be from now on—a life of questions without answers, mysteries without solutions.
Liam runs a hand through his hair, an impatient gesture that belies his determination. "So what do we do?"
"We stay here." Ava's voice gains strength as she speaks. It's the only plan she has. "We wait. And we hope they come back. Together."
The resolve solidifies between them, unspoken but understood. They can't do anything else, and that knowledge is both a comfort and a curse.
Sophie leaves the room to gather blankets and pillows, her measured movements betraying the frenzy in her mind. Ava hears the sound of a cupboard door opening, the rustle of fabric. Liam stares at the empty frame on the mantel, a long, searching look, then turns his attention back to Ava.
"You doing okay?" he asks, his voice softer now, concern overtaking the earlier tension.
She wants to say yes, wants to be strong like they are. But the words catch in her throat. "I don't know," she admits. It's harder than saying nothing, but she knows it's what he needs to hear. "This isn't what I expected. Not today. Not ever."
He gives her a tight smile, understanding and solidarity wrapped into a single expression. "We'll get through it. You, me, Sophie. We always do."
Ava nods, wanting to believe him. "Yeah," she says, trying to make it true.
Sophie returns with an armful of bedding. She hands Liam a pillow and blanket, places another set next to Ava, and keeps the third for herself. "If they don't come back by morning," she says, resuming their earlier conversation as if she never left it, "we need a contingency plan. If this isn't a prank, then we have to be prepared for—"
"Let's focus on tonight," Ava interrupts, not ready to confront the possibilities that stretch beyond this one night. She looks around the room, at her friends, at the empty frames, and back at her friends again. "Let's just make it through tonight."
They arrange themselves on the living room floor, the blankets creating small islands of warmth in a sea of uncertainty. Ava puts on a brave face, but every small sound, every creak of the house settling, makes her heart jump. The day's events play over and over in her mind, an endless loop of impossibilities.
Sophie settles in to sleep. Liam's breathing is deep and even, his body finally relaxing into the temporary comfort they've made. Ava tries to settle herself, but sleep won't come.
The air is charged with an expectation that presses down on her. She lies still, hyper-aware of her own breath, of her friends' presence beside her. Every minute feels stretched, elongated by the strangeness of the day and the absence that hangs over them like a storm cloud waiting to burst.
And then it happens: a strange, metallic hum fills the house, vibrating through the floorboards and making the empty frames rattle slightly on the walls. Ava holds her breath, waiting to see if it will wake the others, waiting to see if it's real or just another sign of her mind unraveling.
Sophie shifts but doesn't stir, and Liam sleeps on, unaware. Ava feels more alone than she did in the silence of the afternoon, more isolated by this new development that only she seems to notice. She watches the shadows on the ceiling, expecting them to shift and change like they did at the diner, waiting for the world to twist itself into new and unsettling shapes.
But nothing else happens. Just the hum and the rattling frames, and the weight of uncertainty pressing her deeper into sleeplessness. She closes her eyes, opens them again, stares into the darkness. It's going to be a long night.