THINGS WE LOST IN SUMMER.

The phone rang sharp, shrill. Ding ding!

Noah picked up the wireless receiver, pressing it to his ear.

“ Hello?”

A familiar voice replied, low and steady. “Noah it’s been two weeks since your dad passed. I think you should come back. Revisit.”

(A few weeks later.)

On a high speed the car drove, Noah put his head above the car glass, he could feel the breeze slapping on his cheeks. In approximately 5 hours Noah arrived his childhood town in a rented car, and shortly after the driver helped offload his things in front of the house, Noah took a deep breathe. Looking at the house at a distance for few minutes then he quietly walked in. The house smelled like rust, dust and things left unsaid.

Noah hadn’t stepped through the door in eleven years, but nothing's changed except him. It was a wave of silence and quiet all over, it felt like Noah had been gone for a lifetime, everything seemed new. Noah stared at the old interiors, placing his hands on the artwork on the dusty wall he walked slowly reminiscing his childhood memories, flicking on light switches that buzzed to life. The air felt stale, as if it had been holding its breath since the last time he left. That was eleven years ago. He was seventeen. Elia had just disappeared. And his father as well, he had already started disappearing in his own way.

Noah had only returned now because his father was finally, truly gone.

He paused by the staircase, where an old photograph still hung of him and his dad, holding fishing rods and forced smiles. A chill crawled up his spine. It wasn’t just grief. It was a memory. It was the weight of silence.

The attic was where his dad had kept the storage boxes old things nobody wanted to throw away but couldn’t bear to look at. He climbed the narrow steps, ducking under cobwebs, brushing dust off his jacket as he reached the top.

Most of the boxes were labeled with practical things: “Christmas,” “Tax Papers,” “Mom’s Stuff.” But in the corner, nearly hidden behind a stack of suitcases, sat a small box marked in a child’s handwriting: “Summer ‘07.”

He stared at it for a long time before kneeling.

The cardboard was soft with age. Inside, carefully arranged as if by younger hands, were pieces of a life long buried a plastic bracelet made of colorful beads, a toy compass missing its needle, a stack of faded Polaroids, and a hand-drawn map folded into four neat squares.

He reached for the map first. It was drawn on old notebook paper, wrinkled and torn at the edges. Roads were crooked lines, and trees were scribbles. But he recognized it instantly their secret map. The one he and Elia had made that summer.

Little red X’s marked key locations Dragon’s Nest, Ghost Rock, Wishing Tree, Edge of the World.

He unfolded one of the Polaroids. It showed him and Elia at the lake, both soaked from swimming, arms slung around each other, grinning at the camera like nothing in the world could touch them.

Something caught in his throat.

She had vanished that summer. Without a note. Without a goodbye. The police called it a runaway. Her parents didn’t press. The town moved on.

But Noah never really did.

He pulled out the rest of the items, fingertips brushing over each one like they might whisper back. Tucked in the bottom of the box was a small Post-it note in the same looping handwriting:

“If you find this follow it.”

His breath caught. He read it again. The letters were unmistakably hers. Elia. What was this? A game? A goodbye? Or something more?

Noah sat back against the attic wall, map unfolded across his knees. He hadn’t thought about her in years not really. He’d tried not to. There were too many questions, and no one had ever offered answers.

He traced a finger along the path they once imagined, from the Wishing Tree to the Edge of the World. It felt like another lifetime.

Maybe it was.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the attic window. Dust danced in the last slant of daylight. The map fluttered slightly in his hands, like it wanted to be read.

He folded it carefully and placed it in his jacket pocket.

Standing, he looked back once at the box, then at the attic stairs. “Alright, Elia,” he whispered. “Let’s see what you left behind.”