That afternoon began like any other Thursday.
I’d gone to the local grocery store after work to pick up some essentials. The sky hung gray over the parking lot as I stepped out with two grocery bags.
Then I saw him.
A homeless man sat near the alley by the pharmacy wall. His beard was thick, and his coat was worn thin. A paper cup rested beside his boots.
Normally, I might have walked past.
But something caught my eye.
Then I saw him.
The last thing Lily wore when she disappeared that day was the bright red sweater I had knitted for her 18th birthday. It was made of thick cables and wooden buttons. She loved the soft wool and used to wrap herself in it on cold mornings.
Inside the cuff, I’d stitched two tiny letters in pale thread. “Li.”
That was my nickname for her since childhood.
The grocery bags slipped from my hands, and apples rolled across the pavement.
Because the man sitting there was wearing Lily’s sweater!
That was my nickname for her.
It was wrapped around his shoulders.
“Hey!” I shouted.
The man looked up as I grabbed the sleeve and turned the cuff with shaking hands. There I found the nickname!
My voice broke. “Where did you get this? Tell me what happened to my daughter!” I demanded.
The man didn’t pull away. He just studied my face as if he’d been waiting for this moment.
He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Your daughter is alive.”
“Where did you get this?”
“What?” I whispered. My knees almost gave out.
“I know where she is. You need to come with me.”
Before I could even speak, he reached out and grabbed my wrist lightly.
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