I left my daughter with my parents during a business trip. Two days later, she disappeared at the mall. My parents said, “we only looked away for a moment.” Ten years later, while cleaning out my grandmother’s house, I found a strange vent in the wall. I leaned in and heard a little girl humming from inside.

The Vent

I left my daughter with my parents during a business trip.

I remember the exact moment I buckled her into her car seat, because she asked me if I’d miss her. She was six and already suspicious of promises.

“Of course I will,” I said, too quickly. “It’s only a few days.”

She frowned in that serious way she had, like she was weighing my words against some private scale. Then she nodded and began humming—an absent little tune she made up as she went along. She hummed when she colored, when she brushed her teeth, when she thought no one was listening.