Chapter 687

The morning in Riga was much like any other, grey sky pressing down on the city like a lid. Juris woke to the muted sounds of traffic filtering through the double-glazed windows of his apartment. He stretched, joints popping in protest of another night on the pull-out couch, and padded to the small kitchen to put on the kettle.

The radio, tuned as usual to a local news station, sputtered to life. The first report was disjointed, almost like static interference. Juris frowned, thinking it was just another equipment malfunction in their poorly funded station. Then, the announcer's voice, strained and shaky, cut through the crackle.

"We're receiving… unbelievable reports. Nationwide. Across the Baltic states… It appears… women… they're just… gone."

Juris paused, kettle halfway to the burner. Gone? What the devil did that even mean? He turned up the volume, heart starting to tap a quicker rhythm against his ribs.

The broadcast became slightly clearer, the announcer's voice still wavering, attempting to maintain composure while relaying utter chaos. Police stations were flooded with calls. Panic was erupting in city centers.

Women had vanished from their beds, from bustling marketplaces, from behind the wheels of their cars, leaving vehicles abandoned in roadways.

"No signs of abduction. No trace. Just… emptiness." The announcer sounded close to breaking.

Juris stared at the radio, dumbfounded. He walked to the window, peering out at the street below. It seemed… normal. Cars moved, people walked, though there was a noticeable frantic energy in their movements.

He hadn't noticed anything amiss in his own building. His neighbor, Maija, usually left for work around now, her footsteps a familiar rhythm on the stairs outside his door. Silence.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through news sites. The reports were echoing across the internet, though fragmented and unverified. Social media was a torrent of confusion and terror. #WhereAreTheWomen trended globally within minutes.

He tried calling his mother. Ringing. Ringing. Voicemail. He dismissed it at first as poor reception, tried again. Voicemail again. His sister, Liga. Same thing.

A cold dread started to seep into his bones. He dressed quickly, throwing on jeans and a worn sweater. He needed to see for himself. He ran down the stairs, burst out of the apartment building, and into the street.

The usual morning rush hour was fractured. Cars honked in a discordant symphony, and a few stood abandoned, doors hanging open. He noticed something else, something unsettling in its absence. Laughter. The usual bright, sharp sound of women's voices chattering, arguing, joking – it was absent, swallowed by a heavy, oppressive quiet.

He walked towards the central market, usually a vibrant hub of sound and color, especially on a Saturday. Today, it was… hollow. Stalls stood unmanned, fruits and vegetables wilting in the morning chill. A few men milled about, looking lost and bewildered, speaking in hushed tones, their voices laced with disbelief.

"Did you… did you see anything?" Juris asked a man standing by a flower stall, who was staring blankly at the bunches of lilies, drooping and unsold.

The man shook his head slowly, his eyes red-rimmed. "My wife… She was making coffee. I turned around for a second, to get milk from the fridge… and she was gone. The coffee pot still hot on the stove." His voice cracked, and he turned away, unable to speak further.

Juris felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. This wasn't a localized incident, some terrible accident. This was… bigger. Something fundamentally wrong.

He went to the police station, the closest one to his apartment. Chaos reigned. The reception area was overflowing with men, faces etched with panic and grief, desperately trying to file reports, to get answers that no one had. The few female officers present looked just as stunned and frightened as everyone else.

"Sir, please, you need to wait your turn," a young officer with dark circles under her eyes said mechanically, her voice devoid of any emotion. She looked exhausted, like she'd been repeating the same phrase for hours.

"My mother… my sister… I can't reach them. Have you… have you heard anything concrete?" Juris asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

The officer just shook her head, her gaze distant. "Reports are coming in from everywhere. Every country. It's… everywhere." Her words were flat, toneless, conveying the sheer overwhelming scale of the disaster.

Juris left the station, feeling utterly useless. He walked aimlessly through the city, the unsettling silence growing thicker, heavier with each step. The world felt wrong, fundamentally broken. It was like a painting missing its crucial colors, a symphony without its leading melody. Women were woven into the fabric of life; their absence tore a hole in reality itself.

Days blurred into a horrifying week. The initial panic morphed into a grim, stunned silence. Governments worldwide struggled to respond, to offer explanations that they themselves did not have.

Theories abounded, each more fantastical and terrifying than the last. Aliens. A new plague. A biblical rapture, selective and cruel. But none of it felt real, none of it explained the clean, absolute disappearance.

The infrastructure began to fray. Hospitals, schools, essential services – staffed largely by women – were collapsing under the strain. The absence was not just emotional; it was practical, societal. The world was grinding to a halt.

Juris stayed in his apartment, glued to the news, scrolling through endless updates, each one as baffling as the last.

Food became scarce; stores were emptying out as distribution networks faltered. The initial shock was giving way to a simmering anger, a desperate need for answers, for someone to blame, even if there was no one.

He started going out less, the silence outside too deafening. The absence was palpable, a physical weight pressing down on his chest. He would sometimes catch a glimpse of his reflection in the darkened window, his face gaunt, eyes hollowed with fear and exhaustion.

One evening, a week into the disappearances, there was a knock on his door. He hesitated, paranoia now a constant companion. He opened it cautiously, to find his neighbor, Peteris, standing in the hallway. Peteris was a quiet man, usually keeping to himself, but his face was etched with a deep, raw grief that mirrored Juris's own.

"Juris… have you… heard anything?" Peteris's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Juris shook his head. "Nothing. Just… nothing."

Peteris swallowed hard, his eyes glistening. "My daughter… Little Inga… She… she just turned five yesterday. Her mother… She took her to bed, tucked her in… This morning… Inga was gone. But her… her toys. Her drawings… They're all still there." He choked on the words, tears finally spilling down his face.

Juris felt a surge of empathy so intense it was almost physical pain. He'd been grieving his mother and sister, a profound, personal loss. But Peteris's words… they cracked something open inside him. This wasn't just a mass disappearance of women. It was children. Little girls.

"Come in," Juris said, stepping back. Peteris shuffled inside, looking lost and broken. They sat in silence for a long time, the only sound the distant, mournful wail of a siren, echoing through the empty city streets.

That night, sleep evaded Juris. He lay in the darkness, Peteris's words reverberating in his mind. Little Inga, gone. Her toys, still there. The utter senselessness of it all was crushing. He thought of his own mother, her gentle hands, her warm laugh. His sister, her sharp wit, her unwavering spirit. Gone. Just… gone.

He got out of bed and went to the window. The city was draped in shadows, buildings like empty husks against the faint glow of the moon.

He looked up at the sky, searching for some sign, some explanation in the cold, indifferent expanse of stars. Nothing. Just an endless, silent void.

Days turned into weeks, then months. The world changed irrevocably. The initial terror gave way to a weary acceptance, a hollowed-out existence lived in the shadow of an unimaginable loss. Men struggled to rebuild, to adapt, but the spark, the vibrancy, the very essence of life felt diminished, permanently muted.

Juris, like many others, moved through the motions, a ghost in a world haunted by absences. He volunteered at a makeshift aid center, distributing dwindling supplies, offering a quiet, numb comfort to others who were just as lost and broken as he was.

One day, while sorting through donated items, he found a child's drawing, tucked inside a box of clothes. A crayon rendering of a smiling woman, with bright yellow hair and big, loving eyes, holding a tiny hand. A child's mother, drawn with all the innocent love and faith of a young heart.

Juris held the drawing, his fingers tracing the crude crayon lines. Little Inga. Countless others, like her, gone without a trace. The thought hit him then, with the force of a physical blow, a truth so brutal, so devastating that it almost took his breath away.

They weren't coming back.

This wasn't some temporary abduction, some cosmic misunderstanding that would be rectified. This was… final. The women were gone, vanished from the face of the Earth, leaving behind a world fractured, incomplete, and forever scarred. And they weren't coming back. Ever.

The brutal finality of it crushed him. Not just the disappearance, but the absolute, irreversible loss. The world would go on, in its broken, diminished state.

Life would stumble forward, limping and wounded. But the laughter of women, the gentle touch of mothers, the bright spark of feminine energy – it was gone, leaving behind a silence that would never be filled.

Juris closed his eyes, the child's drawing clutched in his hand. He pictured his mother, his sister, their faces fading, receding into the mist of memory. And in the silent, empty space of his heart, a profound, desolate sorrow bloomed, a grief so vast and unending that it felt like the end of everything.

For him, in a world devoid of the feminine, it truly was. The world was a canvas, painted in shades of grey and muted brown, forever lacking the vibrant hues that had once made it beautiful.

And in this monochromatic world, he was adrift, utterly and irrevocably alone. The brutal truth echoed in the silence: they were gone, and the world, and his heart, were broken beyond repair.

The cheerful yellow of the crayon sun in the little drawing mocked him with its lost warmth, a cruel reminder of what was, and what would never be again.