[Scene – Jamie's POV | Same Summer Day as Lydia]
The sun was already high when I stepped out onto the patio, a glass of cold mango juice sweating in my hand. The morning air carried that faint citrusy scent from the lemon tree Sonia planted years ago, and for a moment, it was enough to make everything feel peaceful—normal. I stretched lazily, blinking at the sunlight filtering through the bougainvillea vines wrapped around the trellis. Birds chirped. Our neighbor's sprinkler hissed to life.
I took a sip of the juice and let it linger on my tongue. Then I glanced at the time.9:07 a.m.
Too early for anything interesting, too late to crawl back into bed. But I never really slept much anyway. I hadn't since I was eleven.
Inside, I could hear Dad humming to himself in the kitchen, probably trying to figure out how to make Gujarati poha and Tamil pongal at the same time again—his latest culinary "fusion challenge." The scent of curry leaves and ghee drifted through the open window, and I knew he'd come out soon, asking for a taste-tester like always.
I loved mornings here. The predictability. The warmth. The way the house felt like it had soaked up laughter from years ago and still glowed with it somehow. Even if I didn't say it out loud, I was grateful for it. Every single day. Because I remembered what it was like before.
I sat down on the porch swing and tapped my fingers against the side of the glass, watching a hummingbird dart around the flowers like it was on a mission. I probably should've been reviewing anatomy flashcards or finalizing my course schedule for fall, but my mind kept drifting. It always did in the quiet.
And today… it drifted to her.
Lydia.
I don't know why. Or maybe I do.
Maybe because the sun was too bright. Or because I caught sight of the treehouse drawing in the back of my old sketchpad last night while cleaning. It was still tucked between the pages like a fossil, the paper soft and folded a dozen times, almost ripped down the middle. Lydia had drawn it—our secret place in the woods. Her handwriting was in the corner, crooked and stubborn, like she'd fought to press every letter into the paper so it wouldn't disappear.
I wondered if she still drew. I wondered if she was even alive.
It was a stupid thought. I knew that. But after all these years, with no trace, no answers, no one who even remembered she existed—sometimes it felt like maybe I'd imagined her. A ghost in my childhood.
Except I hadn't. Lydia was real. The way she laughed. The way she used to hum under her breath when she thought no one was listening. The way her nose scrunched when she was reading something really complicated and didn't want to admit she already understood it. Her hand in mine. The kiss. Her screams when they dragged me away.
I still dreamed about that night. And I still heard her yelling my name.
"Jamie!" Dad's voice pulled me back. I turned as he leaned out the kitchen door, holding a wooden spoon triumphantly. "Poha's done. Come taste."
I stood up and walked toward him, forcing a smile. "On my way."
We ate breakfast at the kitchen island—Mom had already left for the hospital. Sonia was still asleep, probably up late, color-coding something or arguing with strangers on a political forum. Dad told me about a new recipe he wanted to try for dinner, something with coconut and green chili, and I nodded along, laughing at his impressions of his old film directors when he got too excited about spice ratios.
But even as I laughed, even as I wiped chili oil off my lips and teased him about trying too hard, I couldn't shake the weight in my chest.
I didn't know where Lydia was. I didn't know if she was safe. But I could feel it—somewhere deep inside—that she wasn't okay. Maybe it was just old memories.
Maybe it was guilt. But maybe…
Maybe something in the universe still tied us together.
I cleaned up the plates after Dad left to water the plants, then wandered back to my room, restless. As I wandered back to my room, my mind kept wandering to that night, to the feel of Lydia's hand slipping out of mine, and the sound of her voice, growing fainter and fainter until it was lost in the darkness. I shook my head, trying to dispel the memories, but they clung to me like a shadow. I knew I should focus on the present, on the warmth of the sun and the comfort of my family, but Lydia's absence was a constant ache.
Later that day, as the sun began its descent, painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold, I found myself standing in front of my old sketchpad. I hesitated for a moment, running my fingers over the well-worn cover, before carefully opening it to the page with Lydia's drawing. Her treehouse, our secret place, stared back at me, and I felt a tug in my heart. I closed my eyes, seeing her face, hearing her voice, and in that moment, I knew I had to find her. I had to know if she was okay.
After the decision was made, I began to formulate a plan. I would start with the old neighborhood, with the woods where we used to play, and I would follow any lead, no matter how small. I owed it to Lydia and to myself to finally uncover the truth.