It was late, and the fog seemed heavier than usual as I drove down a lonely road, trying to get home after a long day. I hated this shortcut but thought it would save time. Suddenly, a shadow appeared ahead. I slammed the brakes, my heart racing, and saw a girl standing in the middle of the road. Her white dress hung in tatters, and her eyes were wide with an eerie emptiness.

I rolled down my window. “Are you okay?” I asked, my voice shaky. The girl didn’t respond, but as I stepped out and shone my flashlight on her face, I froze. It was Emily—my daughter, who had been missing for five years.

“Mommy?” Her voice was soft, almost forgotten. Relief mixed with dread as I reached for her. She had no memory of where she’d been or what had happened, only vague fragments of a dark room and a man who brought her food.

I took her home, but something was off. Emily seemed distant, robotic, as though she didn’t recognize the place. Days passed, and she hardly spoke, except for one night when she whispered, “I remember him… Uncle Jake.”

My heart stopped. Jake, my late husband’s brother, had been close to us. The police later found evidence in an old cabin where Emily had been kept. Jake had taken her, claiming he wanted her to depend on him, just like her father.

“You’re safe now,” I whispered, rocking her in my arms as she cried. “No one will ever take you again.”