US

I never thought the house would feel this empty. Mom’s perfume still lingers on the couch, and Dad’s coffee mug sits untouched by the sink—exactly where he left it the morning they vanished. The police say there’s no evidence of a struggle. No signs of forced entry. Just silence. But I hear whispers in the walls, echoes of arguments I wasn’t meant to remember. Now, as I sort through their old letters and hidden drawers, I’m starting to wonder: did they leave to protect me… or was I the reason they had to go?

US

I never thought the house would feel this empty. Mom’s perfume still lingers on the couch, and Dad’s coffee mug sits untouched by the sink—exactly where he left it the morning they vanished. The police say there’s no evidence of a struggle. No signs of forced entry. Just silence. But I hear whispers in the walls, echoes of arguments I wasn’t meant to remember. Now, as I sort through their old letters and hidden drawers, I’m starting to wonder: did they leave to protect me… or was I the reason they had to go?

The basement door groans as I force it open, dust swirling in the beam of my phone flashlight. This wasn’t here last week—I’m sure of it. Behind stacks of holiday decorations, a false wall slides aside with a click, revealing a metal cabinet etched with my name and a barcode. My hands shake as I pull out a folder labeled 'Subject: Elias – Parental Bond Observations.' Inside, photos of me as a baby are stapled next to notes about 'emotional resilience thresholds' and 'maternal attachment anomalies.' Then I find it—a voice recording dated yesterday. Dad’s voice, trembling: 'If you’re hearing this, we’re already gone. Don’t trust anyone. Not even… not even Mom.'

My breath hitches. What does that mean? Did one of them betray the other? Or was everything—the laughter, the bedtime stories, the way Mom used to brush my hair—just part of the study?