For sixteen years, businessman Edward Harrington searched for his missing daughter, unaware she had been living and working right under his nose all along…
Charlotte sobbed into her pillow, her wrenching cries shattering the quiet of the room. Edward paced like a caged animal, struggling to comprehend how this could have happened.
“How could you lose a child?” he demanded, barely containing his anger.
“I didn’t lose her!” Charlotte cried. “We were sitting on the bench—Emily was playing in the sandbox. There were children everywhere, you know how it is! You can’t watch every single one every second! Then suddenly, she was just… gone. I searched everywhere, called you straight away!”
Her voice cracked again, and fresh tears spilled over. Edward stopped pacing, sat beside her, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know. She didn’t just wander off. Someone took her. And I’ll find them. I swear it.”
The search for the five-year-old began immediately. Police combed parks, basements, woodlands—every possible lead. But there was no trace. It was as if she had vanished into thin air.
Edward aged a decade overnight. He remembered the promise he’d made to his dying first wife—that Emily would be the happiest girl alive, that he’d protect her with his life. After her death, he’d married Charlotte, who insisted Emily needed a mother’s care. The girl and stepmother never bonded, but Edward had hoped time would fix that.
For a year, he was a ghost of himself—swinging between drunken stupors and rigid sobriety. Meanwhile, Charlotte ran his company, and he let her. His only routine? Calling the police. The answer never changed: “No new leads.”
Exactly a year after Emily’s disappearance, Edward returned to the playground where it all began. Tears streamed down his face.
“A whole year… A year without her.”
“That’s right, have a good cry. Tears cleanse the soul,” came a voice beside him.
Edward started. Next to him sat Doris, the local caretaker, as much a fixture in the posh village as the oak trees. She never seemed to age—just existed, timelessly.
“How do I go on?”
“Not like this, that’s for sure. You’re barely a man anymore. And if Emily comes back, what’ll she think, seeing you like this? Honestly, what are you doing to everyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your wife’s selling off the company. People are losing their jobs. You gave them hope, now you’re tossing them out like rubbish.”
“That’s impossible—”
“Seems not. And who’s to say she won’t poison you next? Then where’ll Emily come home to?”
Without another word, Doris stood and shuffled off, her broom scraping the pavement.
Edward sat a while longer, then trudged home. He cleaned up, glanced in the mirror—and recoiled. A gaunt, hollow-eyed stranger stared back.
He drove to the office for the first time in a year. The receptionist—some young girl glued to her phone—didn’t even look up. Upstairs, a stranger sat at his secretary’s desk, caked in makeup.
“You can’t go in there!” she shrilled as he pushed past.
Inside, Charlotte was perched on some slick-haired man’s lap. She leapt up, flustered.
“Edward! I can explain—”
“Get out. You’ve got two hours to leave town.”
She fled, her beau slinking after her. Edward coldly added, “That goes for you too.”
Within minutes, he’d called department heads, then his former secretary, Lydia.
“I tried calling,” she said.
“Come back. You’re needed.”
The company’s revival began. Edward worked two days straight—rebuilding, firing traitors. Returning home, he smirked—Charlotte had taken anything of value. Good riddance. He’d already frozen her accounts.
Acquaintances whispered: Where was the easygoing, compromising man they knew? In his place stood a ruthless businessman who never wavered.
Five years later, the company thrived. Ten years—it dominated the region. People feared him. Only three saw behind the mask: Lydia, housekeeper Margaret, and Doris. They knew the agony festering beneath.
One evening, Margaret knocked on his study.
“Edward, might I have a word?”
“Of course.” He set aside paperwork, sniffed the air. “Is that pancakes?”
She laughed. “You always bribe me with food when you want something.”
“Guilty. What is it?”
“Since we moved to the manor, I’m stretched thin. The gardens, the cleaning… I’m not as young as I was.”
Edward frowned. “You’re leaving?”
“Oh no! But I’d like to hire help.”
He bristled. New faces in his sanctuary? After years of isolation?
“Margaret, you know how private—”
“And you know I’d never disrupt your peace,” she said gently. “But the manor’s too much for one pair of hands.”
He sighed. “Fine. But quiet. No disturbances.”
“Have I ever let you down?”
“Never,” he smiled. “Now, about those pancakes…”
The next day, Edward skipped the office. As he had for sixteen years, he visited the playground—his annual pilgrimage. He sat, watched children play, sometimes wept, often just sat in silence. By dusk, he’d return home, lock himself in his study with whiskey—the one day he allowed grief to surface.
This time, he returned to an unwelcome surprise.
“The cleaning supplies go here, cloths here,” Margaret’s voice carried from the hall.
Edward grimaced. Today of all days?
Before he could retreat, Margaret emerged with a slight girl of about nineteen. Spotting him, the girl nervously tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Edward’s heart lurched. Something in that gesture, in her eyes—
“Edward, this is Lucy. She’ll be helping me. Best not disturb him,” Margaret said sternly.
The girl nodded mutely.
“Does she even speak?” Edward asked.
“She does. Just… sparingly,” Margaret replied, guiding Lucy away.
Edward sank into an armchair, uneasy. Something tugged at his memory. Shaking it off, he poured whiskey, opened the family album—his annual ritual. Page after page of Emily—her first steps, her laugh, her saying “Daddy…”
Then—fourth birthday. He froze. Grabbed a magnifying glass. Stared.
His heart stopped.
He nearly took the door off its hinges bursting into the kitchen. Margaret jumped.
“What’s wrong?”
“Where is she? Where’s Lucy?”
Margaret nodded to the parlour. Edward stormed in. Lucy shrank into a corner, wide-eyed. Those eyes—he’d know them anywhere.
He grabbed her wrist, pushing the sleeve up. A faded child’s bracelet—worn, but unmistakable.
His voice shook. “Get paper. Now!”
Margaret fetched a notepad. Lucy wrote haltingly: *”I’ve always had this. It’s all I have from childhood.”*
“Do you remember anything?” Edward asked, dread rising.
She shook her head, wrote: *”No. I was sick. Only remember from age seven.”*
“Who are your parents?”
*”Don’t know. Lived with travellers. Ran away when they tried to marry me off.”*
Margaret gasped. “It can’t be…”
Edward stood rigid. Was it possible? His daughter, here? If not—who was she? And why that bracelet? Those eyes?
“We’re going to the clinic,” he said firmly.
Lucy looked to Margaret, who nodded. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll come too.”
The week that followed was endless. Tests, waiting, dread. Edward cancelled everything, barely left the house—terrified hope would vanish if he did.
Lydia summoned the head of security. After a private talk with Lucy, he reported back.
“The travellers took her. Paid to do it.”
“Who?” Edward’s voice was paper-dry.
“Charlotte.”
He closed his eyes. Of course. He’d known her capable of cruelty—but this?
“Find her.”
“Already did. She’s destitute. Doesn’t even recognise herself anymore.”
They returned to the parlour. Margaret watched Edward, who only had eyes for Lucy—now trembling, overwhelmed.
He knelt before her.
“Forgive me, darling. Forgive me for not finding you sooner. Those who hurt you will pay. I promise. Forgive me, Emily.”
The girl swayed, clutched her head—then looked at the bracelet. Her lips moved, whispering like an echo from the past:
“Papa… You gave me this for my birthday. I was four.”
A year later, in a university town, a bright-eyed freshman hurried to lectures, books tucked under her arm. The fear in her eyes was gone—replaced by light. And few would ever guess the stolen girl she’d once been.
