My sister disappeared 15 years ago. I was the last person she called, but I missed it. By the time I saw her voicemail, she was gone without a trace.
No clues, no witnesses, nothing. Her name was Leah, and for years, I replayed that missed call in my head, wondering what she had wanted to tell me. Our family slowly gave up hope, but I never did.
Two nights ago, I boarded a late train after a long day at work. As I slid into my seat, I glanced across the aisle and my heart nearly stopped. A girl looked up from her book, and I froze.
Same eyes. Same scar on her neck from the childhood bike accident we used to laugh about. My throat tightened.
“Leah!” I blurted out, half-standing. She stared at me, wide-eyed, like she recognized me but wasn’t sure if she should. Slowly, she stood up.
I rushed toward her, overwhelmed. “Where have you been? We thought you were gone forever!”
Her lips trembled as she whispered, “I don’t remember… anything.
My name isn’t Leah. It’s Anna. At least, that’s what the people who raised me told me.” My head spun.
“People who raised you? Leah, you were twenty-one when you vanished!” She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “All I know is… two weeks ago, I started getting flashes of another life.
Your face kept appearing in my dreams.” We sat together, and she handed me a worn locket from her pocket. Inside was a faded photo of us as kids the exact picture I’d kept on my nightstand for years. Leah or Anna didn’t have all the answers yet.
But in that moment, I didn’t care. I wrapped my arms around her and promised, “We’ll figure this out together. You’re home now.” As the train sped into the night, I realized this wasn’t the end of the mystery.
It was just the beginning.
