Shadows of the Past

My husband disappeared when my son was 5 months old. When my son started talking, he always said a bad man came to his room while we were all sleeping. We didn’t take it seriously. Years later, I found in his room a hidden journal, its pages yellowed and trembling in my hands. The first entry, dated the night my husband vanished, was in his handwriting: “He’s here. I saw him. I have to go.” My heart sank. More entries described a shadowy figure threatening our family, forcing him to flee to protect us.

I confronted my son, now 12. He admitted the “bad man” still haunted his dreams, a memory he’d buried. Together, we pieced it together—my husband’s disappearance wasn’t random. He’d left a note in the journal’s cover: “If I don’t return, know I love you. Follow the clues.” It led us to an old shed where police found evidence of a struggle and a lead on a local criminal. They reopened the case. Last week, a detective called—my husband’s alive, held captive. We’re waiting to reunite, healing the scars of those lost years, guided by a child’s innocent words.