Whispers of Hemmesjö

Part 3

It was Saturday early evening when Sara had set out to meet her friends at the village green behind the church, a common gathering spot for the local youth. She had left with a smile, promising to be back before ten. But as evening fell and Sara still hadn't returned, worry began to creep into Mila's heart.

The harsh yellow light from the kitchen lamp cast long shadows across the worn wooden floor. Mila slammed the chipped mug down on the table, the clatter echoing in the tense silence. "Have you seen Sarah, Joran?"

Joran, slumped at the opposite end of the table, his face etched with worry, shook his head. "No, Mama. Not since dinner." His gaze flickered to the grandfather clock in the corner, its hands ticking mercilessly past eleven. Sarah had never been out past ten, not even with friends.

Mila's already taut features hardened. "Have you tried calling her friends?"

Joran pushed himself up from the table, scraping his chair against the floor. "Been trying for an hour. No answer from anyone."

A groan came from the armchair in the corner. Tord, Mila's husband, stirred, his face puffy and red. The scent of stale beer hung heavy in the air. "What's all the racket about?"

Mila ignored him, grabbing her phone and dialling a number. "It's about Sarah, Tord. She's missing."

Tord's eyes flickered open, a flicker of something that might have been recognition passing through them. "Missing? What do you mean?"

"She's not here, and none of her friends have seen her. She wouldn't just disappear, Tord!" Mila's voice cracked with rising panic.

Tord pushed himself upright with a grunt, swaying slightly. "Probably just spending the night at a friend's. Kids do that nowadays."

Mila slammed her phone back down. The look in her eyes was a storm cloud about to burst. "She wouldn't, Tord. You know she wouldn't. This isn't some teenage rebellion, this is serious!"

Joran stepped forward, placing a hand on his mother's arm. "Calm down, Mama. We'll find her. Let's try calling some of the neighbours, maybe someone saw her."

Mila nodded, taking a shaky breath. She knew Joran was right. Panic wouldn't help. They needed a plan.

Together, they dialled every number they could find, their voices growing hoarse with repeated explanations. The silence on the other end of the line was a punch to the gut with each passing call.

Tord slumped back into his chair, his face a mask of apathy. "Probably ran off," he mumbled, the words slurred with drink.

Mila whirled on him, her eyes blazing. "Don't you dare say that! You wouldn't know responsibility if it bit you in the behind!"

Tears welled up in Joran's eyes. He wanted toscream at his father, shake him out of his drunken stupor. But he knew itwouldn't do any good. Instead, he turned back to the phone, dialling anothernumber on their worn address book.