Police searched roads, cameras, shops, alleys.
Nothing.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photo of Lina sitting on a couch, unharmed, holding juice.
Message:
You took seven years from me. I take seven hours from you. Come alone.
Attached was an address.
An abandoned textile factory outside the city.
Inspector Rahmani forbade me to go.
I left anyway.
The factory smelled like rust and rain.
I stepped through broken glass calling Lina’s name.
Slow clapping echoed above.
Samir emerged on the catwalk.
Older.
Grayer.
Same eyes.
Eyes that enjoyed fear like wine.
“You look tired,” he said.
“Where is my daughter?”
“Safe.”
I ran toward the stairs.
