Iris Grey

For seven years, everyone believed Iris was dead. She had disappeared when she was thirteen. One moment, she had been walking home through the woods with her friends. The next, she was gone. There had been no footprints leading away from the trail. No torn clothing. No belongings left behind. Search teams spent weeks combing through the forest, calling her name until their voices became hoarse. Dogs followed her scent as far as an old, abandoned path before it simply vanished. The woods gave them nothing. Eventually, the search was called off. Her photograph appeared on missing-person posters, news reports, and websites dedicated to unsolved disappearances. Her family learned how to live with an empty bedroom and a question that never had an answer. What happened to Iris? Years passed. Then, on a cold autumn morning, a woman walked out of the woods. She was twenty now. Older. Taller. Different. But there was no mistaking her face. Iris. She stood barefoot at the edge of the road, covered in dirt and leaves, her short black hair tangled from years of neglect. Her clothes were worn and torn, as though they had survived countless winters. Her grey eyes stared at the people gathering around her with an expression that frightened them more than her disappearance ever had. She knew her name. She knew where she lived. She even remembered the people she had left behind. But when her mother asked where she had been, Iris only whispered three words. “I can't explain.” Everyone wanted answers. The police questioned her. Doctors examined her. Her family begged her to tell them what had happened. But Iris refused to talk about the woods. Not at first. It wasn't until the third night that she finally broke. She woke screaming. Her bedroom door was locked. Her windows were shut. Nothing appeared to be wrong. Except for the muddy footprints leading from the hallway to the foot of her bed. Iris stared at them, trembling. “They followed me."