The Girl Who Never Left
They found Emily Carter standing on the side of the road, barefoot, wearing the same yellow dress she'd disappeared in ten years ago.
Her hair was tangled. Her skin was pale.
But she hadn't aged a day.
The town held its breath when the police brought her home.
She looked exactly the same—down to the tiny scar on her chin from when she fell off her bike at six years old.
Her parents collapsed in tears.
The reporters swarmed.
But Emily just stared at everyone with wide, glassy eyes.
Like she had forgotten how to be a person.
Like she wasn't really there.
Doctors ran tests.
No signs of malnutrition. No physical trauma.
No explanation.
She was still six years old.
Her mother brushed her hair and tucked her into bed, whispering prayers of gratitude.
Her father sat outside her room every night, listening to her breathing.
But something wasn't right.
Because Emily didn't sleep.
Not once.
She just lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Smiling.
She didn't remember where she had been.
At least, that's what she told them.
"I was here," she said softly. "The whole time."
"But, sweetheart," her mother whispered, "you weren't."
Emily just tilted her head.
"You don't remember?"
Her mother frowned. "Remember what?"
Emily giggled.
"You saw me. Every night."
Her mother's skin went cold.
"No, baby, I didn't."
Emily's smile didn't fade.
"Yes, you did," she whispered.
"I waved at you from the window."
Things got worse.
The cat wouldn't go near her.
Her reflection lagged in the mirror, moving a second too late.
At night, her parents heard soft laughter from her room—except Emily's mouth wasn't moving.
The therapist asked her to draw where she had been.
She picked up a crayon and started coloring.
A dark forest.
A long, winding road.
A tall, faceless man standing behind a tree.
Watching.
Waiting.
"Who is that?" the therapist asked.
Emily's smile widened.
"My friend."
One night, her mother woke up to whispering.
She turned over, expecting to see her husband.
But he wasn't there.
Then—
Soft breathing.
Right beside the bed.
She rolled over—
And Emily was standing there.
Smiling.
Her mother's throat closed.
"Honey?" she croaked. "What are you doing?"
Emily tilted her head.
"I was just watching," she whispered.
"Watching what?"
Her smile grew.
"You."
The next morning, the front door was wide open.
Emily was gone.
This time, they didn't look for her.
Because deep down—
They knew she'd come back.
She always did.
And each time—
She looked a little less like their daughter.
And a little more like something else.
Something that had worn her skin for far too long.
Waiting for the day they finally let it stay.