They Came Back
Six months.
Half a year since the woods swallowed them.
Six months of search parties, candlelight vigils, and empty promises. The town had grown used to the silence—used to the idea that the Caldwell twins were gone for good. Their names became a story people whispered when the wind howled, when children dared each other to go near the old oak at dusk.
The mother stopped sleeping in their room after the first month. The scent of their shampoo had faded from the pillows, and dust gathered on the picture frames. Sometimes she stood in the doorway just to remind herself it was real—that there had once been laughter in that space.
The father, though, refused to let go.
He wandered the woods at night, lantern in one hand, his worn sketchbook in the other. People said he'd been seen kneeling by the oak tree, muttering into the soil, tracing shapes on the ground as though trying to redraw what was missing. Others swore they saw him press his ear to the bark like he was listening for a heartbeat.
When winter set in, the police scaled back the search. They told the Caldwells the ground was too hard to dig and that no one could survive six months out there, not with the cold.
Still, he kept going.
Until one morning, six months to the day since they vanished, there was a knock at the door.
It was faint—three soft taps that sounded almost uncertain.
The mother had been sitting in the kitchen, staring into her tea. When she opened the door, her breath caught in her throat.
Two girls stood on the porch. Barefoot. Clothes torn and soaked. Hair tangled with mud and leaves.
Elena. Mara.
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt. The mug slipped from her hand and shattered at her feet, but she didn't feel the heat of the tea burning her skin. She ran forward, gasping their names, arms wrapping around them both.
"Elena! Mara! Oh God—oh God—"
Her words dissolved into sobs. The twins stood still at first, letting her hold them. Slowly, they raised their arms, embracing her back—mechanical, unsure. Their skin was ice-cold.
When she pulled away, her tears streaked their faces clean. "Where were you?" she whispered. "Who hurt you?"
Elena's lips parted. "Home," she said softly.
The mother choked on a sob and kissed her forehead again and again. "You're home now. You're home."
The police arrived fast—sirens cutting through the quiet street. Neighbors peeked through curtains. The missing girls had come back, and no one knew how or why.
Inside, the officers filled the house, asking question after question. "Do you remember anything?" "Were you with someone?" "Do you know how long you were gone?"
Neither twin answered.
Mara stared at the floor.
Elena's gaze drifted to the window—the one facing the woods.
The mother didn't push. She made them soup, filled the tub with warm water, washed their hair, and tucked them into bed. She sat in the hallway for hours afterward, listening to the sound of their synchronized breathing. It was the first peaceful sound she'd heard in months.
The father stood outside their room, silent. His eyes never left them.
Something about their stillness unnerved him. The way their chests rose and fell together—too perfectly, as if they shared one pulse. The faint smell of wet earth still clung to them, heavy and sweet.
That night, when the house went quiet, he sat alone at the kitchen table. He placed his sketchbook in front of him, hesitating before flipping it open.
The pages were filled with spirals of trees, dark roots curling like veins, faces buried beneath bark. He turned another page—and froze.
There, sketched in faint graphite, were two figures beneath the oak tree. Holding hands. Their eyes were hollow. Their mouths curved in perfect smiles.
He stared at it, his pulse thudding in his throat. He didn't remember drawing this.
A floorboard creaked above him.
He looked up sharply. The sound came again—slow, deliberate. But when he climbed the stairs, both girls' doors were closed. The house was still.
He stood there for a long moment, listening.
Then something brushed against the kitchen window behind him. He turned and saw it—the oak tree swaying gently in the moonlight, its branches seeming to stretch closer to the house than before.
When he looked down again, the drawing seemed darker. The hollow smiles wider.
He whispered their names—just once, softly.
"Elena....Mara."
The wind outside shifted, brushing through the trees like breath over glass.
And somewhere deep in the woods, something answered.