The last time I saw my sister Laura, she was barefoot in her wedding dress, spinning under string lights on our Iowa farm. Her dress was stained with barbecue sauce and red clay, but she was glowing—radiant and joyful, yet with a flicker of something else I couldn’t name.
“Can you believe it, Emmy?” she asked, breathless. “I’m actually married.”
I squeezed her hand and told her it suited her. Her husband, Luke, looked at her like the luckiest man alive. Still, I caught a shadow in her smile when no one was looking. I asked if she was happy. She started to answer, but we were interrupted—and that was the last real conversation we had.
The next morning, Luke called in a panic. Laura was gone. Her car, phone, and wedding ring left behind. Her dress folded neatly. Her side of the bed cold. No note. No explanation.
It didn’t make sense—yet it did. Laura had always needed space when life got overwhelming. She vanished before, in smaller ways. But this wasn’t a college party or family fight. This was her wedding night.
We all rushed to the motel. Everything was left with eerie care, like she wanted us to see it, to know this wasn’t an accident.
Only one thing was missing: Laura.