The morning air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of dew and blooming flowers. He tied his running shoes tightly, stretching his legs on the small porch before setting off on his morning run. The neighborhood was already alive, buzzing with the soft energy of a new day.
As he jogged down the street, the familiar faces of his neighbors greeted him with smiles and warm words.
“Good morning!” called the florist as she arranged a fresh display of roses outside her shop.
“Looking good out there!” the barber shouted from his doorway, broom in hand.
He nodded and waved, feeling his chest swell with gratitude. The sun was rising higher, casting a golden glow over everything. The colors—the vibrant flowers, the bright shop signs, the freshly painted fences—felt almost unreal, like a painting he was running through.
A group of children zipped by on bicycles, their laughter ringing out like music. He paused for a moment at the corner bakery, inhaling the sweet, yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread. Every sight, every sound, every scent filled him with a renewed sense of life.
All of this was thanks to the cornea donor whose generosity had restored his world. A lump rose in his throat as he thought of the faceless stranger who had given him this second chance. He whispered a quiet thank you under his breath and resumed his run.
The jogging track looped around the small park at the center of the neighborhood. It was his favorite spot—the neatly trimmed grass, the towering oak trees that provided shade, and the small pond reflecting the clear sky. After a few laps, he slowed to a walk and found a bench near the pond, letting the morning sun warm his skin.
The breeze rustled the leaves overhead, carrying with it the soft chirping of birds. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, letting the tranquility of the scene wash over him.
When he opened his eyes, something caught his attention. A piece of paper lay on the ground near his feet, fluttering slightly in the breeze. He bent down to pick it up, curious. It was a flyer, the edges creased and worn.
In the center of the page was a photograph of a young girl, her face bright with a shy smile. Above the picture, bold letters read:
MISSING – HAVE YOU SEEN HER?
His heart sank as he scanned the details below. The girl, whose name was Mia, had disappeared three months ago. She was 14 years old, last seen walking home from school. A phone number and a plea for any information were printed at the bottom.
He stared at the flyer, the image of the girl etched into his mind. A sense of unease crept over him, mingling with the serenity of the morning. He glanced around, as if expecting someone to come looking for the flyer, but the park was mostly empty.
Sliding the paper into his pocket, he stood and began walking back toward home. The vibrant colors of the morning seemed dimmer now, his thoughts preoccupied with the girl’s photo and the shadow of her absence.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had seen her before—or something about her. The thought lingered, faint but persistent, like a whisper at the edge of his mind.
* * *
