The morning after what should have been the happiest day of her life, my sister vanished — no note, no call, not even a whisper of goodbye. For a decade, we were left with nothing but unanswered questions. Then, tucked away in a dusty attic box, I found a letter dated the very day she disappeared — and it changed everything.

The last time I saw Laura, she was twirling barefoot on the wooden dance floor Dad had hammered together that same morning, its boards slick with spilled beer and dotted with soft dirt patches. Her wedding dress — once ivory — now carried smudges of barbecue sauce, punch stains, and the earth beneath her feet. And yet, she was radiant, like joy wrapped in lace.

The backyard shimmered under strings of yellow lights Mama had saved from Christmas. Lilac perfume drifted from the bushes, mingling with the smoky scent of Uncle Randy’s grill. Laughter floated through the warm Iowa night, kids darted after fireflies, and the slow drawl of country music wrapped around us like a familiar blanket.

“You’re really married now,” I teased as we leaned over the lemonade table, both of us flushed and sticky from the heat.

“I know. Isn’t it crazy?” she replied, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling.

Across the yard, Luke — her brand-new husband — was laughing with his groomsmen, looking every bit the man who’d just won the love of his life. Laura waved to him, but in that moment her smile wavered ever so slightly. I didn’t think much of it then, caught up in the magic of the night. But now, looking back, I can see it clearly — that flicker in her eyes, like she was holding something back. Like she was already halfway gone.

By the next morning, she was.

The motel room where they’d spent their wedding night was spotless. Her dress was folded neatly on the bed. Her phone sat untouched on the nightstand. No note, no explanation — nothing.

We called the police. Neighbors. Friends. Volunteers combed through the woods and dragged the pond twice. Luke was questioned repeatedly, but no evidence ever surfaced. Laura was simply… gone. Like wind through dry corn, she’d slipped away without a trace.

After the search came silence — heavy, unshakable silence. Mama stopped humming gospel tunes in the kitchen. Dad still worked the farm, but his back seemed more bent with every passing year. Luke tried to stay connected, bringing flowers to Mama and fixing things around the house, but after two years, he left the state. He said he needed a fresh start, his voice stripped of emotion.

I stayed. I moved into Laura’s old room. The scent of her — a mix of vanilla lotion and wildflower shampoo — lingered in the air. I packed her belongings into boxes and stacked them in the attic, telling myself I’d sort through them when I was ready.

I wasn’t ready for ten years.

Then, one rainy morning, while looking for an old photo album for Mama’s birthday, I climbed into the attic. Kneeling beside a box labeled College Stuff, I thought I might find a picture of Laura in her graduation cap and gown.

Instead, at the very bottom, I found a plain white envelope with my name — Emily — written in her familiar slanted handwriting. My heart stumbled. I flipped it over and saw the date: the morning after her wedding.

Sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor, dust swirling around me, I opened it with trembling hands…