She paused, holding back tears.
"I ran. I didn't know what else to do."
That night, she'd gone to Hana's home, desperate to tell someone—anyone.
"But when I spoke to her parents... they told me they don't have a daughter."
She looked at us, eyes wide and pleading.
"I've known them for years. I've seen her grow up. But the house was different. No photos. No toys. Nothing. It's like Hana never existed."
I glanced at the detective, expecting disbelief. But he didn't say anything. He just stared at the woman, watching every tremble in her fingers, every flicker in her voice.
"I know it sounds crazy," she said. "But I swear it's true."
After a long pause, the detective opened his notebook. He clicked his pen once.
Then he wrote:
"A girl named Hana has disappeared."
"We'll look into it," he said.
Relief washed over her face. She thanked us, voice barely above a whisper, and walked out the door.
She never made it home.
Somewhere along a quiet alley, footsteps echoed behind her. The same two men from the night before.
She tried to scream. She didn't make it.
And just like Hana—she was gone.
And the world forgot her.
Even the detective.
But one thing remained.
A single line, scrawled in a notebook he couldn't remember writing:
"A girl named Hana has disappeared."