The kettle clicked off at 6:02 a.m.
Rafael poured the hot water into a cup. The tea leaves floated and swirled slowly. He stirred the cup three times, then stopped. Tap, tap—he hit the spoon on the side of the mug. Everything he did was quiet.
The little lamp on the table glowed a soft yellow. On the table sat a bowl of cereal, a glass of orange juice, and a folded napkin. Aria's chair was turned just a little. She liked to face the window while she ate. She once told him the school buses looked "tired but brave."
He didn't smile, but he remembered.
He walked down the hallway, passed the bookshelf full of empty space, and knocked on the white door. Two soft knocks.
Inside, something moved. A blanket. A groan.
"Aria," he said. His voice was calm and quiet. "Time to get up."
More sounds. Then she answered: "Mmmrrff."
"That's not a word."
"I'm making my own language," she said, voice muffled. "Mrrff means five more minutes."
"No," he said. "It means cold cereal."
"Ugh, fascist."
He heard her roll out of bed, dragging her feet on the floor.
When he came back to the kitchen, she was already at the table. She wore a big blue hoodie that hung off her like a blanket. Her hair was wild, sticking up everywhere. She looked like she had just been hit by a storm.
"You look... zapped," Rafael said.
"That's the look," she said, eating cereal. "I'm starting a new trend."
He took a sip of his tea. "Of course."
They sat in silence for a while. It wasn't awkward. They were used to it.
"You working late again?" she asked, still looking at her cereal.
"No. I'll be home early."
She didn't answer, but he saw the small smile she tried to hide.
He reached over and fixed the backpack strap that had slipped off her chair. Then he sat back, eyes always watching, always listening.
Outside the window, the city was waking up. Cold, grey, quiet.
Far away, a van engine rumbled. It didn't drive off.
The sidewalk was still damp from last night's rain. The air smelled like wet pavement and car exhaust. Rafael walked beside Aria, their footsteps soft and even.
She wore her hood up and dragged her backpack like it weighed too much. She wasn't talking now. That was normal. Morning walks were always quiet.
"Morning, Rafael!" called Mrs. Lin from her doorway. She waved with a cup of tea in her hand, her little dog yapping at the edge of the porch.
"Morning," Rafael said with a nod.
Aria waved. "Hi, Mrs. Lin! Hi Peanut!"
Peanut barked louder. Mrs. Lin smiled and went back inside.
The city was just starting to move. Streetlights blinked. Store signs lit up one by one. A man on a bike passed them fast, face blank, headphones in.
Rafael scanned everything.
A delivery truck backed into a corner shop. A man smoked near a bus bench. A small group of students waited by the sign. But across the street, half hidden behind the truck, sat a black van.
No logo. Tinted windows. Engine running low.
Rafael didn't stare. One glance. One mental note:
No movement in the front seat
Wipers paused in mid-swipe
Too clean for this part of town
"You have your test today," he said.
"Yeah," Aria said. "Easy stuff."
"Two pencils?"
She held up her hand. "Like a nerdy little gunslinger."
He nodded.
The bus pulled up. Ms. Ortega, the bus monitor, leaned out. "Morning, Aria. Morning, Mr. Costa!"
"Morning," Aria said, stepping on board.
Rafael gave a small nod. "Thank you."
The bus hissed, pulled away.
Rafael looked across the street again.
The van was still there.
The office lights were bright, but not warm. White desks. Soft hum of computers. Coffee machines that hissed more than brewed.
Rafael sat at his desk—third row from the window. His nameplate read R. Costa. No one used it.
He typed fast, moved files, ran numbers. Precise work. Every keystroke clean.
"Yo, Costa," said a voice. Davo, from the finance team. Skinny kid, loud jacket. "You see the stock crash this morning?"
"No."
"Wild stuff, man. Whole thing tanked."
Rafael didn't respond. Just kept typing.
Davo tapped the desk once, then walked away. "Alright, keep killin' it."
Around him, people laughed at memes, shared weekend plans, argued about coffee pods.
No one asked Rafael anything else.
At lunch, he sat in the break room, alone. Plain broth. Plain chair. Eyes on the wall.
The van came back to his thoughts.
Same shape. Same color. Same stillness.
At 4:00 p.m., he shut his laptop, stood, and left.
Outside, clouds hung low. Air sharp with wind.
He crossed the street toward his building. It was quiet.
Then he saw it.
The black van. Parked across the street. Again.
Same position. Same angle.
No driver in sight.
He stood at the curb for ten seconds. Then twenty.
No movement.
Then he turned and went inside.
Upstairs, the apartment was silent.
He checked the time. 5:45.
Still no sign of Aria.
The apartment was too quiet.
Rafael stood by the window, arms folded, watching the street below. Cars passed, one every few minutes. A man walked a dog. A couple argued in low voices by the corner market.
The black van was gone.
The clock said 6:12 p.m.
Aria should've been home thirty minutes ago.
He checked the hallway, the stairwell, the mailbox—nothing. No signs. No footsteps. No voice saying, "I forgot my jacket!" like she did some days.
He picked up her school schedule from the counter. Then her bus route. Called the emergency line. No answer. He didn't call again.
He just left.
The street by the bus stop was quiet now. A flickering streetlight blinked overhead. No people. No movement. Just wind and old gum stuck to the sidewalk.
And her backpack.
It was sitting on the ground next to the pole. Upright. Like it had been placed there, not dropped.
He crouched down.
No dirt. No damage. The zipper was half-open. A piece of folded paper stuck out—her drawing from the morning. A purple monster with a crooked crown and big eyes. She'd named it "Munch."
He reached for it.
Inside the front pocket, only a pencil and a broken eraser.
Then he saw it.
Lying by the curb, half-covered by leaves.
A black feather.
Long. Clean. Shiny, like oil.
He picked it up slowly.
Too perfect. Not natural. Not from any bird he'd seen. It looked like something made, not grown.
He stood, looked around.
No one on the street. No vans. No camera poles. No tire tracks.
Just the empty bus stop, the cold sidewalk, and the bag of a child who never made it home.
He walked back slowly, holding her backpack in one hand and the feather in the other.
When he stepped inside, he locked the door.
The apartment still smelled like tea and toast.
Rafael stood in the center of the living room.
He placed the feather on the table.
Then the backpack.
He didn't sit.
He just stood there.
Still.