Paul was the kind of student every teacher dreamed of—bright, polite, eager to learn.
Then, one day, he stopped coming to school.
No warning. No explanation. Just… gone.
And when I finally found out why, it changed everything.
I never had children of my own.
People always told me I’d regret it, that one day I’d wake up with an aching emptiness that no career or hobby could fill. Maybe they were right. Maybe they weren’t.
But I always told myself that my students were my kids, in a way.
Fifteen years of teaching had introduced me to every kind of child—troublemakers, prodigies, chatterboxes, loners. I loved them all, but Paul… Paul was different.
Eight years old, bright-eyed, and polite. He was the kind of student every teacher wished for—the kind who actually wanted to learn.
While other kids passed notes or doodled in the margins of their notebooks, Paul’s were pristine. Perfectly lined numbers. Equations worked out step by step.
No eraser smudges. Just focus and determination.
And then, one day, he was gone.
At first, I thought he was sick. It happened all the time—kids caught colds and stayed home for a few days.
But when a week passed with no sign of Paul, I started to worry.
By the second week, I went to the office.
I stood there, arms crossed, heart pounding.
“Have you heard anything about Paul from my class?” I asked. “He hasn’t been to school in two weeks.”
The secretary, Mrs. Thomas, barely glanced up from her paperwork.
“Parents haven’t called. Probably sick.”
I frowned. “But for two weeks?
No updates?”
She let out a sigh, finally meeting my gaze. “Mrs. Margaret, I know you care about your students, but sometimes it’s best not to get involved in things that aren’t your business.”
A chill ran down my spine.
Not my business? A child was missing, and I was supposed to just ignore it?
“Did you even try calling home?” I pressed.
She hesitated. “We… We sent a note home.”
A note.
A note? Paul was eight years old, not an irresponsible teenager skipping class. Something wasn’t right.
“Do you have his home address?” I asked, voice steady.
Mrs.
Thomas gave me a look—one that said she thought I was being ridiculous—but after a long pause, she scribbled it onto a sticky note and slid it across the desk.
I snatched it up and made my decision.
I was going to find out for myself.
I didn’t know what I expected when I pulled up to Paul’s apartment building. Maybe his mother answered the door, looking frazzled but relieved, apologizing for the miscommunication. Maybe Paul, sick in bed, promising to return soon.
But the moment I stepped into the dimly lit hallway, I knew I had been naïve.
The air smelled of mildew and old cigarettes, and the walls were stained with something dark in the corners.
The overhead light flickered, casting eerie shadows.
I found apartment 27 and knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again, harder.
For a long, suffocating moment—nothing. Then, the door creaked open just an inch.
And there was Paul.
His face was pale, his once-bright eyes dull and sunken. The dark circles beneath them made him look like he hadn’t slept in days.
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