Weeks blurred into a rhythm of school and stolen moments with Kayla. They'd walk home together, her teasing him about his scuffed sneakers or the way he'd blush when she caught him staring. Kayla had a way of filling silences, her laughter echoing like a melody Tylor hadn't known he needed. But at night, alone in his room, he'd trace the edges of Amaira's crayon drawings—stick figures of their family, now incomplete—taped to his peeling wallpaper. Her favorite purple crayon still lay in a dusty tin, untouched, a relic of a life stolen.
One October evening, as the sky burned orange and the air grew crisp, Kayla found Tylor on the porch, his face buried in his hands. The weight of Amaira's absence had hit him hard that day, triggered by a red balloon tangled in a neighbor's tree. "Tylor?" Kayla's voice was soft, her boots crunching on fallen leaves as she sat beside him. "What's wrong?"
He swallowed, the words heavy. "My sister, Amaira. She disappeared two years ago. Chasing a red balloon. I was supposed to watch her, but I didn't. I looked away, and she was gone." His voice cracked, tears stinging. "I've searched everywhere—parks, the creek, the woods. Nothing. It's like she vanished into thin air."
Kayla's hand found his, her touch warm against his cold fingers. "That's not your fault," she said firmly, her eyes fierce with conviction. "You were a kid too."
"I failed her," Tylor whispered, staring at the cracked porch boards. "I can't stop looking, but I don't know where else to go."
Kayla squeezed his hand. "Then we'll look together. I'm not letting you carry this alone."
Tylor met her gaze, her determination cutting through his despair. For the first time, hope flickered—a fragile, dangerous thing. "You'd really help?"
"Try stopping me," she said, her smile a promise. "We start tomorrow. Every clue, every corner. We'll find her, Tylor."