The fog rolled in from the Pacific Ocean, a familiar ghost blanketing the coastal town of Morningington, Oregon in its customary morning shroud.

Frank Sanders stood at the window of his daughter’s bedroom, his reflection a pale, tired spectre in the glass.

He watched as the mist swirled around the distant stoic finger of the lighthouse point, blurring the line between sea and sky.

The scenic beauty of this small town with its thick ancient woods and dramatic cliffs that crumbled into the churning sea had once been a source of profound comfort.

For the last 22 years since the day Alicia had vanished, it had been a prison of memory.

Each familiar view a fresh stab of pain.

He turned from the window, his gaze sweeping across the room.

A perfect heartbreaking diarama of 1990.

Everything was exactly as Alicia had left it that bright spring day.

Just weeks after her high school graduation, faded posters of bands he’d never liked still clung to the walls.

The re their youthful faces mocking the passage of time.

Her desk remained a shrine to a future that never was, organized with textbooks and notebooks.

Their pages filled with a confident, looping script that spoke of dreams and certainties.

Her closet, a silent testament to a life interrupted, was still full of clothes that hadn’t been worn in over two decades.

Their styles a time capsule of a forgotten era.

It’s time, he whispered.

the words tasting like rust in his mouth.

The sound was swallowed by the room’s oppressive silence.

He was recalling the conversation with his wife Elaine the previous night, a conversation spoken in the hushed, weary tones they’d adopted over the years, a language forged in shared unending grief.

They had finally agonizingly agreed.

After 22 years of clinging to a phantom limb of hope, a hope that had become more poison than balm, they had to accept that Alicia was never coming back.

Today was the day they would dismantle the shrine.

They would sort through her belongings, donate what could be useful to children in need, and move the rest, the sacred relics of her girlhood, to the attic, a burial of sorts.

Frank slid open the window and a gust of damp salty air heavy with the scent of pine and decay disturbed two decades of settled dust moes danced in the weak morning light tiny particles of a life suspended.

He sneezed a sudden violent sound in the hallowed quiet and wiped his watering eyes.

He moved to the closet and began the grim task, his hands feeling clumsy and intrusive.

Each item was an artifact, a trigger for a memory that was both exquisitly sweet and agonizingly sharp.

Her favorite blue sweater, worn soft with love, still held a faint, imaginary scent of her perfume.

the seaf foam green dress she wore to her junior prom.

A night he remembered her floating down the stairs like a princess from a fairy tale.

Her face luminous with excitement.

The faded jeans with the colorful slightly crooked patches she had painstakingly sewn on herself a small defiant expression of her individuality.

He worked methodically, his movements a defense against the overwhelming tide of grief that threatened to pull him under.

He created three piles, three neat categories for a messy, unfinished life.

Donation, storage, keepsakes.

When he reached the heavy cardboard box of her school supplies, he faltered.

These were not just things.

They were the blueprints of her aspirations, the tangible evidence of a mind alike with curiosity.

She had been accepted to the University of Oregon, her heart set on studying marine biology.

The ocean she had loved, the vast, mysterious entity at their doorstep, had become the silent, inscrable backdrop to her disappearance.

As Frank sorted through heavy textbooks with underlined passages and binders filled with meticulous notes, his fingers brushed against a book he didn’t recognize.

It was thick and heavy, bound in dark blue leatherrett with the high school’s crest embossed in silver, Alicia’s senior yearbook.

A surprising jolt like a low-grade electric shock went through him as he realized he had never once looked through it.

in the raw chaotic days that bled into months and then years after she vanished.

The thought of seeing her smiling face frozen in time alongside classmates who had gone on to build careers, marry, have children, to live was an unbearable cruelty.

Neither he nor Elaine could face it.

Now it felt different.

The sharp edges of grief had been worn smooth by time, leaving a dull, constant ache.

He sat on the edge of her single bed, the mattress groaning under his weight as if in protest.

The yearbook felt significant in his hands, like a sealed chapter of his daughter’s life he was finally being permitted to read.

He opened it, the scent of old paper and printing ink rising to meet him.

He flipped through the glossy pages.

A parade of youthful, hopeful faces, blurring past until he found her.

Alisia’s senior portrait.

Her smile was so bright, so full of unbridled, innocent hope that it sent a familiar, sharp jab of pain through his heart, a physical sensation he knew all too well.

“22 years,” he whispered, his callous finger tracing the curve of her cheek on the page.

I need to learn how to keep you in my heart without this pain, sweetheart.

His eyes drifted to the photo beside Alicia’s.

Her best friend, Amy Davidson.

The two of them, side by side, forever 18, their arms linked.

Amy’s face brought a cascade of warmer memories.

The sound of their infectious giggles echoing from this very room during countless sleepovers.

the sight of them at the dinner table, heads bent together, whispering secrets behind their hands.

Frank realized with a pang that he hadn’t heard anything about Amy in years.

After Alicia vanished, Amy had been a fixture in their house, a shared vessel of grief.

Her presence a comforting, painful reminder.

But eventually, the visits dwindled and then stopped.

another loss in the devastating wake of the first.

Curious, he flipped to the section with individual student profiles.

Each senior had a page with a short earnest biography and a collection of personal quotes.

He found Alicia’s page, her words a bittersweet echo from a time when her life was a blank canvas awaiting its masterpiece.

Thanks to mom and dad for always believing in me.

To my teachers who push me to do better and to my best friend Amy.

Don’t forget to return my book, The Secret Garden, illustrated classic edition.

You old grandma love you forever.

A sound half chuckle half sobb escaped Frank’s lips.

The light-hearted jab at Amy was so typical of their friendship.

a small perfect piece of her personality preserved in print like a pressed flower.

He turned the page to find Amy’s profile, reading about her dreams of becoming a journalist, of traveling the world.

Her bio spoke of drive, of following your dreams, of standing up for yourself.

Frank’s mind snagged on the book Alicia had mentioned, The Secret Garden.

It had been her absolute favorite since childhood.

She’d collected different editions, treasuring the story of grief, rebirth, and the discovery of hidden beauty.

Had Amy ever returned it? He scanned the shelves in the room, then sifted through the boxes again.

He couldn’t recall ever seeing that specific illustrated copy among Alicia’s things.

Driven by a sudden inexplicable need, a tiny flicker of purpose in the vast emptiness, Frank took the boxes of books out to the living room.

The dust in the bedroom was becoming oppressive, making his eyes water and his nose run.

He methodically emptied them, arranging books and magazines on the coffee table and floor.

There were fantasy novels with dogeared pages, dense science textbooks, and stacks of nature magazines, but no illustrated edition of The Secret Garden.

He wondered if Amy still had it after all these years.

On a whim, he picked up the yearbook again and flipped to the back to a section where students had scrolled messages and contact information in an array of colored inks.

Amy had scribbled her phone number with a note.

Call me anytime, BFF.

Frank reached for his phone and dialed the number, not really expecting it to still be in service after more than two decades.

As anticipated, a crisp automated voice informed him the number was no longer in use.

He sighed, a small flicker of something he hadn’t even realized was hope dying within him.

Just then, the front door opened and Elaine walked in, her arms laden with grocery bags from the farmers market.

She stopped abruptly, her body language shifting from relaxed to rigid as she took in the scene.

Books and magazines, the ghosts of their daughter’s life were scattered across their living room like debris after a storm.

Frank, what is all this? Her voice was sharp with surprise, but underneath it was a familiar, brittle layer of pain.

“I was just going through Alysia’s things, like we planned,” Frank explained, standing up slowly, feeling like a child caught doing something wrong.

Elaine’s face hardened.

“We agreed to sort and store them,” Frank, not not spread them all over the house.

So, I thought we were finally moving forward, not dwelling in the past again.

The word dwelling was an accusation they had both hurled at each other over the years.

I’m not dwelling, Elaine.

I found her yearbook.

I was looking for something.

What could possibly be so important that it requires this? She set her grocery bags on the kitchen counter with a thud, her movement stiff, with a frustration born of years of sorrow and unresolved tension.

Frank held up the yearbook, showing her the page, pointing to Alicia’s note as if it were evidence in a trial.

She mentioned a book that Amy borrowed.

I was just curious if it was among her things.

Elaine sighed, a long, weary exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of all 22 years.

A book, Frank, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Alicia’s books are just gathering dust.

We shouldn’t bother Amy with this.

She has her own life now.

She’s probably forgotten all about it, too.

Do you know where Amy is now? Frank asked, shifting the subject slightly, unwilling to let it go.

Yes, I see her sometimes when I’m in town,” Elaine replied, beginning to unpack her groceries with forceful, deliberate motions that broadcast her agitation.

“She lives in a camper these days down by the old mill park.” “I thought maybe I’d visit her,” Frank said tentatively, testing the waters.

“Not just for the book, of course.

It’s just it’s been so long.

She was like family once.” Elaine stopped what she was doing and turned to face him, her eyes dark with a complex mix of love and sheer exhaustion.

Frank, I can’t I can’t do that today.

I have nothing against Amy, but I’m not prepared to see her right now.

Last night, we agreed.

We agreed to clean up to let go of this desperate hope.

Going to see Amy today? It feels like the opposite of that.

She gestured to the disarray in the living room.

I’ll stay here.

I’ll clean this up.

I’ll get things ready for the attic like we planned.

If you want to go, that’s your choice.

Her voice was flat, resigned.

Frank nodded, understanding her reluctance, her need to stick to the plan they had made in the dark of night.

This was a spontaneous, foolish idea.

I’ll go alone, he said softly.

Elaine gave him directions to where Amy usually parked her camper, her voice softening slightly with a hint of warning.

Don’t push her too hard, Frank.

Alicia’s disappearance must have hit her hard, too.

They were like sisters.

Frank gathered the yearbook, his phone, wallet, and car keys.

As he headed for the door, he glanced back at Elaine, who had already begun to neatly stack Alicia’s books back into the cardboard boxes.

her back to him.

He felt a sharp pang of guilt for leaving her with the emotional and physical cleanup, but something was pulling him toward Amy toward an answer to a question he hadn’t even fully formed yet.

The door closed behind him as he stepped out into the misty Morningington morning, the yearbook clutched tightly against his chest, like a shield or a map to a forgotten land.

The winding coastal roads led Frank away from the town center to a modest camper park overlooking a wooded ravine.

He parked his car and surveyed the dozen or so campers.

He spotted a man washing the windows of his RV and approached him.

Excuse me, Frank said.

I’m looking for Amy Davidson.

The man pointed toward a small older blue and white camper at the far end of the lot.

That’s Amy’s place.

nice lady keeps to herself mostly.

Frank walked over.

It was a modest but well-maintained home with a single potted geranium by the door.

He took a deep studying breath and knocked.

After a moment, the door creaked open.

A woman in her early 40s stood there, her blonde hair streaked with gray, her face etched with the subtle lines of a life lived.

She looked at Frank with polite confusion.

Can I help you? Frank felt a jolt.

Of course, she wouldn’t recognize him.

“Amy,” he said, his voice gentle.

“It’s Frank Sanders, Alicia’s father.” Her eyes widened, and a storm of emotions passed over her face.

Shock, deep-seated sadness, and a surprising warmth.

“Mr.

Sanders! Oh my goodness! I Please come in.” She stepped back, and Frank climbed into a compact but cozy living space.

Please sit down.

Would you like some coffee? She asked, gesturing to a small dining nook.

Coffee would be nice.

Thank you, Frank said.

As she prepared it, her movements were deliberate, as if she was giving herself time to process the ghost at her door.

“What brings you here after all these years?” she asked, placing a steaming mug before him.

Frank pulled out the yearbook.

I found this today while cleaning out Alicia’s room.

Amy’s eyes fixed on the book.

I remember this, she said softly.

Frank opened it to Alisa’s profile.

I was curious about this book, she mentioned.

Did you ever return it? A sad, tender smile touched Amy’s lips.

Number I was such a forgetful girl.

She got up and from a cabinet she pulled out a worn copy of The Secret Garden.

I kept forgetting and then after she disappeared, I couldn’t part with it.

It’s the last thing I have from her.

She held it with a reverence Frank understood completely.

Would you mind terribly if I kept it? Of course, Frank nodded.

He took the book she offered, opening it gently.

The pages were yellowed, but the illustrations were vibrant.

Tucked inside as a bookmark was a folded, torn page from a fashion magazine.

Frank unfolded it.

His eyes fell on a young man with sllicked back hair and a confident smirk.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s Jason Murray.” “He was in our class,” Amy said.

Frank’s memory clicked.

He found Jason’s photo in the yearbook.

I remember modeling at that age.

He has his own fashion line now, Amy said.

Very successful.

You know, Frank said, a stray memory surfacing.

Elaine once mentioned you were dating him.

Amy’s expression changed instantly.

That’s not true.

I never even liked him.

He was actually close with Alicia for a while.

This was a bombshell.

Alicia, she never mentioned him.

It was our junior year, Amy explained.

He had a crush on her, but it didn’t last.

Once we realized what kind of person he was, we both stayed away.

She paused.

Actually, I did see them talking a few times during senior year.

They seemed intense.

Alicia even asked me some odd questions about him.

“What kind of questions?” Frank asked, leaning forward.

She asked if I thought someone like him just needed help to change.

If maybe he wasn’t as bad as we thought.

She even asked me to drive past his house once.

I thought it was weird, but Alicia, she always wanted to see the good in everyone.

Did the police know this? Yes, I told them, Amy confirmed.

They questioned Jason.

But by then, Alicia was dating at Brandon Knox.

He was their main suspect.

Frank nodded grimly.

Last I heard, Brandon left town.

The scrutiny was too much.

He looked again at Jason’s arrogant face on the magazine page.

“Then why would Alysia use his picture as a bookmark?” Amy scoffed.

“That was from her favorite magazine.

She was furious he got a spread in it.

She tore out the page, folded it up, and said there was nothing better for it than to be a bookmark.

It was her way of being dismissive.

Do you know where Jason is now? Frank asked.

Amy picked up her phone.

Our high school alumni group just had a reunion last weekend.

At his house.

I didn’t go, but they shared his address.

She showed Frank the message.

Would you mind sending me that? He asked.

They exchanged numbers and Amy forwarded the information.

Do you think Jason might be involved? Amy asked hesitantly.

I don’t know, Frank admitted, but I need to know why my daughter was secretly asking questions about a boy she supposedly disliked.

It just doesn’t feel right.

He stood up, thanking her.

As he left, Amy touched his arm.

Please tell Elaine I said hello and thank you for letting me keep the book.

Frank nodded, stepping back out into the afternoon light.

His mind, once a quiet sea of grief, was now a storm of new urgent questions.

He sat in his car, the address glowing on his phone.

He should go home.

He had promised Elaine, but Amy’s words, the secret curiosity.

It was a loose thread, and he had to pull it.

Just a quick drive by, he muttered, starting the car.

20 minutes later, he was in one of Morningington’s most affluent neighborhoods.

He found Jason’s address, a massive two-story house, a monument to success.

He parked across the street and watched.

Jason emerged, walking a woman to her car.

As he turned back, his gaze swept across the street and locked onto Frank’s car.

There was no hiding.

Frank got out and walked toward the gate.

Jason Murray, Frank called out.

Jason’s face was a mask of cold hostility.

Who are you and why are you watching my house? My name is Frank Sanders.

I am Alicia Sanders’s father.

Jason’s eyes narrowed.

What do you want? He demanded.

I was told you were close with my daughter at one point.

Who told you that? Amy.

Jason spat the name.

I was never her boyfriend.

I barely knew her.

I told the police that back then.

I never suggested you were her boyfriend,” Frank countered.

“But Jason was already defensive, his body tense.” “I have a reputation now.

I don’t need you dredging this up,” he said, turning back to his house.

“You should leave.

I have nothing else to say about Alicia Sanders.” Frank stood there stunned.

The reaction was so disproportionate, so violently defensive.

It wasn’t just annoyance, it was panic.

Driving back toward town, he tried to rationalize it, but the venom in Jason’s voice echoed in his mind.

He was about to turn toward home when an impulse made him turn toward the town center instead.

He found himself parked outside the funeral home.

He went inside, collected some brochures, and returned to his car.

As he opened the door, a flicker of movement across the street caught his eye.

It was Jason Murray walking out of a hardware store carrying a brand new shovel and a small plain wooden box.

Frank froze.

He watched as Jason walked next door to the floral shop and emerged with a large bouquet of white hyestence.

White hyestence.

Alicia’s favorite.

A profound bone deep chill ran down Frank’s spine.

This was no coincidence.

Without a second thought, Frank started his car and began to follow Jason Murray.

Jason drove toward Whitlo Cliff.

He turned onto a private drive leading to a small weathered cottage perched near the cliff’s edge.

Frank drove past, parking further up the road behind a thicket of trees.

He watched as Jason unlocked the cottage, went inside, and reemerged with a container of water.

He placed it in a small trolley with the shovel, the box, and the hyestence.

Then he began walking away from the cottage following a narrow path toward the cliff.

An urgent primal instinct propelled Frank from his car.

He moved through the brush, the sound of the crashing waves below, masking his footsteps.

The path opened to a secluded overlook.

Frank watched from behind a rock formation as Jason selected a spot near the cliff’s edge and began to dig.

After digging a hole, he knelt and opened the wooden box.

A sudden, fierce gust of wind ripped papers from his grasp.

Jason cursed, scrambling to collect them before quickly closing the box.

He placed it in the hole, laid the bouquet on top, and filled it in.

When he was finished, he stood over the mound.

Then in a voice just loud enough for Frank to hear, he spoke.

I think you can hold these memories now, Alicia.

The name hit Frank like a physical blow.

He stumbled backward, his foot slipping.

He caught himself, clamping his hand over his mouth.

Jason’s head snapped up.

“Hello?” he called out.

“Is someone there?” Frank remained frozen.

Jason took a few steps toward his hiding place, then paused.

Just the wind,” he muttered, unconvinced.

He gathered his things and left.

Frank waited, counting to 100.

He emerged his legs weak and retrieved the shovel Jason had left by the cottage.

He returned to the site and began to dig.

Just as his shovel struck the box, a voice behind him made his blood run cold.

I knew someone was out here.

Frank spun around.

Jason stood a few yards away, his face a mask of pure rage.

You shouldn’t have come back.

“I heard you say my daughter’s name,” Frank choked out.

“Stop!” Jason shouted, pulling a gun.

“Drop the shovel.” Frank raised his hands.

But with his free hand, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

“I’m calling the police.

Go ahead, shoot me.” With terrifying speed, Jason lunged, knocking the phone from Frank’s hand.

It skittered toward the cliff’s edge.

In that split second, Frank kicked out, connecting with Jason’s wrist.

The gun flew over the cliff.

Frank dove, his fingers closing around the phone just in time.

He pressed the emergency SOS button.

“It’s over, Jason!” Frank pleaded.

“You don’t understand,” Jason screamed.

Oh, she betrayed me.

She was going to ruin me.

With a roar, he lunged again, seizing Frank by the throat.

Frank gasped for air, the world dissolving into black spots.

And then, cutting through the roar of the ocean came the whale of police sirens.

Jason’s grip loosened.

Moments later, police swarmed the area.

Officers cuffed a stunned Jason.

A female officer helped Frank to his feet.

Are you all right, sir? Yes, Frank.

There, he pointed to the hole.

Hurry.

He buried a box.

He said my daughter’s name.

The officer’s expression grew serious.

Sanders.

I remember that case.

Let me get Detective Ramirez.

Frank explained everything as a forensic team carefully excavated the site.

They uncovered the flowers, then the wooden box.

Detective Ramirez opened it.

Inside was a stack of yellowed papers, photos, and a small handmade wool doll.

The papers were printouts of text messages revealing a secret toxic relationship.

When Alysia had finally broken it off, Jason’s messages had turned threatening.

Then came the photos.

Explicit, horrifying pictures of Alicia taken in the cottage.

her face a mask of fear.

On the back of one, Jason had written a rambling confession.

He wrote that she had refused to talk things out and that he had to stop her.

It ended with, “I had to kill you.

You’ll always be in my heart.” Just then, another officer approached, his face grim.

“Detective, like, we found something about 15 ft from here.

Different soil composition.

We found bone fragments.

Frank’s legs gave out.

He sank to the ground as Elaine and Amy were called to the scene.

They stood together, a small, shattered family, as the team carefully unearthed what was left of Alicia.

“She’s coming home,” Frank whispered, holding Ela’s hand.

“She’s finally coming home.” A week later, a flotilla of boats gathered off the coast.

In the lead boat, Frank held a small ern.

“Today we gather to finally say goodbye to Alicia,” the minister began.

Elaine spoke, her voice clear.

Alicia loved the ocean.

“She would have loved knowing she’ll become part of the sea she so adored.” Together they scattered her ashes.

White hissyasins followed.

Amy placed the worn copy of The Secret Garden on the water.

Goodbye, my friend,” she whispered.

Later, Detective Ramirez gave them the final details from Jason’s confession.

He had held Alysia in the cottage for days.

She had refused to come back to him, telling him she finally saw him for the broken person he was.

In a rage, he had killed her.

That evening, Frank and Elaine sat on their back porch.

A framed photo of Alicia laughing on the beach sat between them.

“I think we can finally move forward,” Elaine said softly, taking his hand.

Not by forgetting her, but by remembering her as she truly