Faceless

Caro’s wheelchair creaked softly as she rolled through the narrow hallway, the familiar path from her room to the kitchen feeling unusually long this morning. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, catching on floating dust, but she barely noticed it. Her brows were furrowed, her lips moving in a constant stream of quiet complaints. “She’s always late,” she muttered. “That girl thinks time is something you borrow and never pay back.” Her fingers, gnarled slightly from age and the creeping touch of arthritis, curled tightly around the edge of the table as she paused to catch her breath. The silence in the house settled around her like a wet cloth—heavy, close, and slightly suffocating. She glanced toward the wall clock. The ticking was loud. Too loud. “Where the hell is she?” she whispered, then added, louder, “Melissa!” Her voice rang out, but only silence responded. Caro huffed and maneuvered herself toward the countertop. Her movements were practiced, but there was an edge of frustration in them today. She reached for the knife she’d been using earlier — an old thing, slightly dulled at the tip, but reliable. Her hand trembled slightly as she grasped the handle, and in one clumsy moment, it slipped. The knife clattered to the floor. “Damn it!” she barked, the sound startling even herself. She froze for a second, then leaned over slightly, eyeing the knife. It had landed just out of reach — too far to grab, too close to ignore. She stared at it in bitter silence. It wasn’t just about the knife. It was the reminder. The reminder that she couldn’t bend. Couldn’t stand. Couldn’t do something as simple as picking up what she dropped. Caro’s jaw tightened. “I told her this chair would bury me,” she muttered. “Told her I wasn’t made to sit still.” The ache in her shoulders burned as she tried, once again, to lean forward. No use. Her breath caught in her throat, not from exertion but from the slow swell of helplessness that started to press against her chest. Her eyes, sharp and weary, flicked toward the phone on the nearby table. She wheeled herself closer, grasping it with more force than she intended, and punched in Melissa’s number. Ring. No answer. She redialed. Again. Nothing. “Come on, Melissa. Pick up. Just let me know you’re alive,” she said softly. Her voice cracked on the last word. She lowered the phone slowly, resting it on her lap. A beat passed. Then another. The ticking of the clock became unbearable again. Caro tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling. Her voice dropped to a whisper, like a prayer she wasn’t sure she believed in anymore. “Don’t let anything have happened to her. Please.” But even as she said it, a familiar heaviness settled in her stomach. -------------------------------------- Melissa stirred, her body stiff and heavy like wet cloth left out in the rain. A soft thud snapped her eyes open—a beach ball, sun-bleached and wobbling on the sand, rolled lazily past her shoulder. Moments later, small footsteps pattered across the shore, followed by the laughter of a child as they scooped up the ball and ran back toward a group of playing children. Their voices, full of life, echoed against the rhythm of the waves. For a moment, Melissa lay still, her breath shallow, eyes blinking slowly as her senses returned. The salty air stung her nostrils. Her palms pressed into damp sand as she pushed herself upright, her limbs shaky, her spine aching. She tried to understand how she had gotten here. Had it all been a dream? The chanting… the water… the figures… She brushed the sand from her jeans, her gaze scanning the beach. Everything looked normal — almost too normal. But then her eyes caught on something. Just a few meters away, a lone child stood silently, back turned to the world, eyes locked on the horizon beyond the waters. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch at the sound of other kids shouting behind him. Melissa’s breath caught in her throat. That was the exact spot… the very place those three hooded figures had stood. A shiver traveled down her spine. She stepped forward, wobbling slightly. Her head throbbed, a sharp, splitting pain blooming behind her temples like a crack in a dam. She squinted through the light and took another step toward the boy. But he was gone. Her eyes darted back and forth. The place he had stood was empty. No footprints. No sign. Nothing. Melissa’s pulse quickened as she reached for her pocket. Her fingers scrambled through the fabric until they landed on her phone. She pulled it out, the screen lighting up instantly. 18 missed calls. Most of them “s**t,” she muttered, her voice hoarse and uneven. She blinked at the screen from Mum.. Something had happened last night. Something real. Melissa brushed off the remaining sand clinging to her jeans and made her way toward the small beach hut tucked beneath the leaning palms. It was the usual check-in spot—weather-worn wood, peeling paint, and a crooked sign above the door that read Staff Only.