By my third year at boarding school, "home" had become little more than a faint echo.
My existence traced a sterile triangle: dining hall, classroom, dormitory.
I moved like a well-wound clock, ticking through the motions of study, meals, and sleep.
The only reality I allowed myself to feel was the steady climb of grades on my report cards.
Then one winter night, long after lights out, as I set aside my last practice test, the old phone on my nightstand began to shudder.
The number was unfamiliar, yet tugged at a buried memory.
I let it ring until the final moment before answering.
The connection brought not a greeting, but a raw, shattered sob—Amanda's voice, choked with a panic I had never heard, stripped of all control.
She didn't wait for me to speak.
"Amy! Where are you? Plea
