Empty Beds
Mother's pov
The kettle screamed.
She hadn't even remembered filling it. Steam hissed against the window, fogging the glass until the morning sun was nothing but a pale blur. She turned the stove off, heart racing with a sudden awareness of silence.
No footsteps overhead. No muffled laughter. No Elena reminding Mara not to waste time.
"Elena? Mara?" she called, forcing cheer into her voice. "Breakfast is ready!"
Her voice bounced down the hallway and died in the stillness.
A shiver ran through her. She left the kitchen and climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The house felt different somehow—stale, as though it had been holding its breath all night.
She opened Elena's door first. The bed was made too neatly, corners tucked sharp, blanket smooth. At first she felt relief—until she realized that Elena never left it this perfect in the morning. Her daughter always rushed, always left the pillow dented, the sheets wrinkled.
This was too clean. Too deliberate.
She whispered her name again, softer this time. "Elena?"
Only the faint creak of the house answered.
Her pulse drummed in her ears as she moved to Mara's room. The bed there was the opposite—sheets twisted, pillow on the floor. But the room itself was empty. No scuffed sneakers by the door. No jacket slung over the chair.
Gone.
Her hand gripped the doorframe until her knuckles ached. The silence pressed against her like a weight.
"This isn't funny," she said, louder now, voice trembling. "Girls? Come out—now!"
Nothing.
And then her eyes caught the shoe rack by the hall closet. Empty spaces where both pairs should be. Elena's polished black flats. Mara's worn-out sneakers. Both missing.
Her breath hitched. She staggered backward and screamed for her husband.
Father's pov
At first, he didn't believe her. Kids sneak out sometimes, he told himself. Maybe they went for a walk. Maybe they're at a neighbor's.
But when he saw the rooms himself, his certainty cracked.
He checked everything—the windows, the doors, the locks. All latched from the inside. He pulled open closet doors, crouched to check beneath the beds. He even opened the pantry, absurdly hoping they'd be crouched inside, stifling giggles.
Nothing.
On Mara's desk, he found her sketchbook. It lay open, as if abandoned mid-thought. His hand trembled as he lifted the page.
A drawing of the oak tree filled the sheet. Its trunk was jagged, wrong, branches curling like skeletal arms. The roots spread wide, twisting, curling deep. Beneath the tree stood two small figures, hand in hand, heads tilted toward the dark.
He stared until his throat tightened. He didn't recognize the expressions on their faces—were they afraid, or reverent? He couldn't tell.
He snapped the book shut.
Outside, the grass was damp with morning dew. He scanned the yard, heart hammering. At first nothing. Then—just beyond the flowerbeds—faint depressions in the ground. Two sets of prints, side by side, leading toward the street.
Toward the oak tree.
It loomed at the end of the block, its silhouette jagged against the gray sky. He had never noticed how massive it looked from here, how its branches reached like arms over the neighborhood. Today, it felt like a shadow carved out of the world.
He stared until the shape blurred. Until the bark seemed to ripple like muscle. Until he thought he saw the outline of a mouth yawning wide.
Behind him, his wife's voice broke the air. She stood on the porch, clutching her arms, face pale as paper.
"They're gone," she whispered. Her lips trembled with each word, over and over, as if saying it might make it untrue. "Gone. Gone. Gone."
He wanted to tell her she was wrong. That they'd find them at school. At a friend's. Anywhere else.
But the words lodged in his throat.
And for the first time, he was afraid the oak tree had swallowed them whole.