“This is going to be the best Christmas,” she murmured, already half-asleep.
Sometime in the early morning hours, I woke with a dry throat. The house was silent in that sacred, suspended way it only ever feels on Christmas Eve. I padded down the hallway, planning to grab a glass of water—and stopped cold.
Mya’s bed was empty.
Panic hit instantly, sharp and breath-stealing. I checked the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it was echoing through the walls. Then I saw it: a piece of paper propped carefully against a gift under the tree. My name, written in careful block letters.
My hands shook as I unfolded it.
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