The way he always does. Gentle enough that I know he’s trying to spare me but honest enough that I know he won’t.
With every file that doesn’t match Marie or Sophie, two emotions arrive simultaneously.
Guilt and frustration.
Guilt because I’m grateful it isn’t them.
Frustration because it means I still don’t know where they are.
The contradiction never gets easier.
When the final file is closed, the office falls quiet.
Mr. Higgs sets the folder aside.
“No matches,” he says softly.
My eyes remain fixed on the desk.
“No.”
The word barely rises above a whisper.
Neither of us rushes to fill the silence.
The kind of silence built from years of having the same conversation and never getting the answer either of us is looking for.
Eventually, I let go of a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
The weight eases from my shoulders by a fraction.
“Good.”
Mr. Higgs nods once.
“Good.”
Only the word lands differently than it should.
Good would be answers or finding them alive and bringing them home.
This isn’t good.
It’s simply not the worst outcome.
And after two years, I’ve learned those aren’t the same thing.
I’m still chasing answers that refuse to be found.
I stand and walk over to the window.
Sunlight filters through the glass.
Outside, people move through their day.
Completely unaware of how many families are waiting for someone to come home.
“I still think they’re alive.”
