The police did their part, but their efforts seemed futile. They assured me they were doing everything possible, but their helpless shrugs and sympathetic looks did nothing to ease my pain. I felt lost, alone, and utterly desperate.
One evening, while crying outside in sheer frustration and despair, I noticed a homeless woman rummaging through a nearby dumpster. She had something slung over her shoulder that made my heart stop. Amber’s backpack! I knew it was hers; I recognized the unicorn patch she had sewn on herself.
I rushed to the woman, my heart racing. “Excuse me! Where did you get that backpack?” I begged, my voice trembling. She looked at me, bewildered and wary. “Please, it’s my daughter’s. I’ll give you money, anything, just please, give it to me.”
The woman hesitated, then slowly handed over the backpack. I thanked her profusely, gave her some money, and clutched the bag to my chest. But when I opened it, my heart sank. It was empty. Completely empty. My mind raced with dreadful thoughts. What had happened to Amber? Why was her backpack here?
The Note
In my despair, I threw the backpack down and broke into tears. As it hit the ground, a small piece of paper fluttered out. I picked it up with shaking hands and unfolded it. Two words stared back at me: “Green House.”
My breath caught in my throat. The Green House! How could she end up there? It was an old house in the neighborhood, known for its peeling green paint and overgrown yard. It had been abandoned for years, or so I thought. I had to find her, and I had to find her now.
I rushed to my car, adrenaline surging through my veins. The drive to the Green House was a blur, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts. What if she was hurt? What if I was too late? I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.
The Discovery
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