What Happened Before

The Empty Space

Chapter Four

The Empty Space

She hurried back to the living room and opened the drawer beneath the television.

Inside was the small wooden box she rarely touched.

Her childhood things were inside.

A ribbon.

Two old birthday cards.

A faded drawing.

The photograph from the orphanage.

And a small piece of paper with her name written on it.

Lidya Kidus Michael

She turned the paper over.

Blank.

She stared at it.

For years she had thought the emptiness was simply part of her life.

Now she wondered whether someone had deliberately left it empty.

She picked the photograph.

It had been taken at the orphanage when she was about nine.

She was standing between two other girls, wearing a white dress that was slightly too large for her.

Her hair was braided into two uneven plaits.

She looked happy.

She remembered that day.

A visiting writer, who happened to be her an all time favourite author, had come to the orphanage.

He had read stories to the children, and Lidya remembered his voice more than his face. She remembered sitting on the floor with nearly twenty other children as he read a story about a girl who dreamed of seeing the ocean.

Lidya had been fascinated by him.

She loved the way he could make a room full of children completely silent simply by telling a story.

At the time, she didn't know much about him. She was only a child, and to her, he was simply the man who had come to read them a story.

Years later, when she was old enough to understand who he was, she discovered his books. She became one of his biggest admirers and eventually read almost everything he had written. Several of his books remained on the shelf beside her bed.

Afterward, he asked if anyone wanted to tell a story of their own.

Lidya raised her hand.

The writer looked around the room and then called her by name.

"Lidya."

She was surprised. How did he know her name?

A wide smile spread across her face. She was so happy that he knew her name that she quickly stood up and began telling her story.

She had been proud of it.

The writer listened carefully without interrupting.

She had never forgotten the way he had looked at her after she finished her story. He had smiled, but there had been something else in his eyes—something deeper and almost protective.

At the time, Lidya had simply thought he was being kind.

She had no idea that years later, she would remember that look.

"You have so many stories inside you, and you're very good at telling them. You should keep telling stories."

Lidya had never forgotten those words.

She had looked directly into his eyes, wondering what he meant.

But she was only a little girl. She knew she couldn't simply walk up to an adult and ask him a question she wants.

So she had said nothing.

She had simply smiled.

Years later, she still remembered his words.

She smiled at the memory and put the photograph down.

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At 1:18 a.m., Lidya finally went to bed.

She placed her phone on the nightstand.

She turned off the light.

The room became dark.

Then her phone vibrated.

She sat up immediately.

Another message.

She opened it.

Don't look for your family yet.

Lidya's stomach tightened.

A second message appeared.

First, find out why you were left.

She stared at the words.

The screen went dark.

Lidya remained sitting in bed.

For the first time, she wondered whether being abandoned had ever been the whole story.

Perhaps someone had left her.

Perhaps someone had taken her.

Perhaps someone had protected her.

Or perhaps someone had wanted her gone.

She didn't know.

But now there was something she had never had before.

A question.

And somewhere in the city, someone knew the answer.

Lidya pulled the blanket around herself and looked toward the dark window.

Tomorrow, she would begin looking.

She just didn't know yet that someone else had already begun looking for her.