My sister Leah disappeared 15 years ago. The last person she tried to call that night was me… but I missed it. I’ve lived with that guilt ever since.
Two nights ago, I boarded a late train home. As I sat down, a girl across the aisle looked up. My heart nearly stopped. She had the same eyes as Leah — and the same thin scar on the side of her neck.
For a moment, we just stared at each other. Something in her expression felt familiar, almost like recognition.
Without thinking, I stood and shouted, “Leah!”
The girl froze. Instead of answering, she quickly stood up and walked toward the next train car without saying a word. By the time I followed, she was gone.
As I stepped off the train later that night, my phone buzzed. It was my mom. She sounded shaken. She said she had just woken from a nightmare about Leah — something she hadn’t dreamed about in years. In the dream, Leah was alive and trying to reach us.
I haven’t told anyone what happened on that train.
Maybe it was just someone who looked like her. Maybe my mind was playing tricks.
But something about the way that girl looked at me still haunts me.
Tonight, I’m taking the same train again.
