She vanished just as the year ended.

The confetti from the midnight celebration still clung to the damp streets, its vibrant colors dimmed under the pale glow of the streetlights. The crowd in Old Market Square had thinned, leaving only a smattering of late-night revelers and the odd passerby rushing home. But among the fading echoes of laughter and the gentle hum of distant fireworks, she disappeared.

Amara Winter. Twenty-nine. Dark curls always half-contained in a loose braid, eyes the color of a storm-swept sea. She had been my best friend since we were five, our lives intricately woven like the threads of an ancient tapestry. And now, as if pulled loose by some unseen hand, she was gone.

It wasn’t like her to leave without a word. She was the one who planned meticulously, who carried extra chargers, granola bars, and a map, even in a world ruled by smartphones. “Just in case,” she’d say with a wry smile. But this time, there was no note, no text, no trace.

The last time I saw her, we stood shoulder to shoulder in the freezing air, counting down the seconds to midnight. She was unusually quiet, her breath clouding in front of her, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the flashing lights and cheering crowd. I’d asked if something was wrong, but she’d only smiled—a small, sad thing—and squeezed my hand.

When the clock struck twelve, we hugged, and I felt her whisper against my ear: “You’ll understand soon.”

By the time the fireworks began to fade, she was gone.

---

The police weren’t much help. Adults leave all the time, they said. Maybe she’d had enough of her job, her life, her obligations. Maybe she needed space. People didn’t just vanish, they assured me. But Amara wasn’t the type to run. She would’ve told me if she were.

Her apartment was untouched. Her passport, wallet, and keys sat neatly on the kitchen counter. The winter coat she’d been wearing at midnight was draped over the back of a chair. I found her phone buried beneath a pile of books on her desk, its battery long dead.

It felt staged, like a scene from one of the detective novels she loved. Only this time, the mystery wasn’t fictional.

I started my own search, retracing our steps from that night. The café where we’d spent hours warming our hands around steaming mugs of chai. The bookstore she’d insisted we visit to pick up a last-minute gift for her niece. The cobbled streets we’d wandered, laughing at the absurdly expensive knick-knacks in shop windows.

I even returned to Old Market Square, standing in the very spot where we’d waited for the countdown. I scanned every face in the dwindling crowds, hoping for a glimpse of her—anything to shatter the oppressive silence she’d left behind.

---

Weeks turned into months. Winter’s icy grip began to thaw, but Amara’s absence only grew colder. Every lead I chased evaporated like smoke. The woman at the café didn’t remember her. The bookstore clerk swore she hadn’t seen anyone matching Amara’s description. Even the street cameras turned up nothing unusual.

It was as if the world had conspired to erase her.

Then, on the first day of spring, I found the letter.

It was tucked inside an old paperback she’d lent me months ago, one I’d finally decided to return. The envelope was unmarked, the paper inside thick and heavy, the ink a deep, midnight blue.

"Ellie," it began, in her unmistakable handwriting. "If you’re reading this, it means I’ve gone where I can’t come back from—not yet, anyway. I can’t explain everything, but know this: I didn’t leave because of you. I’m not running. I’m searching. There’s something out there, something I need to find, and it can’t wait any longer."

The letter rambled on, filled with half-explained thoughts and cryptic warnings. She mentioned a name—Isla—and a place I’d never heard of: Black Hollow.

"Don’t come after me," she wrote at the end. "It’s safer if you stay away. But if you must, look for the light that doesn’t belong. You’ll know it when you see it."

---

Against every instinct, I packed a bag.

Black Hollow wasn’t on any map, not even the detailed atlas Amara had gifted me years ago. But after scouring online forums and making a few questionable phone calls, I found a hint—an obscure reference in a decades-old travel journal.

It was a forgotten village, nestled deep in the forested mountains several hours north. No roads led there anymore, and locals claimed it had been abandoned for decades. But the journal mentioned something else, something that sent shivers down my spine: tales of strange lights that danced through the trees at night, and whispers of people who entered the woods, never to return.

---

The journey to Black Hollow was long and treacherous. By the time I reached the edge of the forest, twilight had settled over the land, painting everything in hues of violet and gold.

I parked my car on the shoulder of a cracked, overgrown road and began the hike into the woods, guided only by a compass and the dim glow of my flashlight.

The deeper I went, the more the world seemed to shift. The air grew colder, the trees pressed closer, their gnarled branches like grasping fingers. Shadows danced in my periphery, though every time I turned, I saw nothing but the stillness of the forest.

And then, just as the last light of day slipped below the horizon, I saw it: a glow, faint and unnatural, emanating from somewhere ahead.

It wasn’t the soft gold of firelight or the pale silver of the moon. It was brighter, sharper, shifting between colors I couldn’t quite name.

"Look for the light that doesn’t belong," Amara had said.

With trembling hands, I stepped toward it, each footfall heavy with anticipation.

---

When I broke through the final line of trees, the sight before me stole the breath from my lungs.

Black Hollow was no ruin, no forgotten village reclaimed by nature. It was alive, its crooked buildings bathed in that otherworldly light. The air hummed with an energy that made my skin prickle, and the faint sound of music—haunting and strange—drifted on the breeze.

At the heart of the village stood a figure, cloaked in shadow, waiting.

"Ellie," came a voice I would know anywhere.

Amara stepped into the light.

Rachel Young

@Rach91

Uk

Rachel Young has not written a story.