The Ghost of a Jacket: A Brother Lost and an Omen Found

My brother vanished thirteen years ago. We searched tirelessly for years, but hope eventually slipped away. Last night, as I stopped at a gas station, a man brushed past me, wearing my brother’s unmistakable leather jacket—the one with the familiar patches and worn sleeve. It was his.

“Adam!” I shouted. The man turned, his face draining of color. Then, without a word, he quickened his pace, hurried to his car, and sped off, never looking back.

Moments later, my phone chimed. It was a text from my mother: “I hope you’re okay. I just had a bad dream about you—you disappeared, just like your brother. Please come home soon.”

I stood frozen. My mother rarely texted me unprompted, let alone shared her dreams. The timing felt hauntingly strange.

Tonight, I returned to that gas station at the same hour, hoping to catch another glimpse of the man. He was nowhere to be seen. I haven’t told my mom—I couldn’t bear to worry her—but I can’t shake the gnawing sense that something is deeply, terribly wrong.