Ella was my twin. We were five when she disappeared.
Ella was in the corner with her red ball.
We weren’t just “born on the same day” twins. We were share-a-bed, share-a-brain twins. If she cried, I cried. If I laughed, she laughed louder. She was the brave one. I followed.
The day she vanished, our parents were at work, and we were staying with our grandmother.
I was sick. Feverish, throat on fire. Grandma sat on the edge of my bed with a cool washcloth.
“Just rest, baby,” she said. “Ella will play quietly.”
Ella was in the corner with her red ball, bouncing it against the wall, humming. I remember the soft thump, the sound of rain starting outside.
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