When I reviewed the security footage, my hands trembled. Max stood at the window, gently waving toward the backyard like he had every evening. Then, near the old treehouse, a figure appeared in the shadows—a silhouette that resembled our daughter, Ellie. My heart tightened with a mix of fear and longing. I watched again and again, unable to look away.
We once had a joyful, ordinary life—Richard, our daughter Ellie, our son Max, and me. Ellie was 12, full of curiosity, and Max followed her everywhere. Then she became unwell, and after months of treatments filled with hope and courage, we lost her. Grief changed everything—Richard buried himself in work, Max grew quiet, and I struggled to keep going. The house no longer echoed with Ellie’s laughter.
