Where's Dad?

Ava remembered that day. It was her 9/11. Yes, she was only three when it happened, but she remembered every single detail: the chaos, the screaming, the crying.

When the shot came through, she tried to run. To him. To her dad. To the first man she’d ever loved. Barely she knew he was the one who was hurt. The one who had died.

What she carried from that day was not just the sound. The sharp crack that split the air like lightning, but the smell. Burnt metal. Icy rain on concrete. And the way her mother’s arms wrapped around her so tightly that her tiny ribs ached. When Ava finally asked at night, “Where’s Dad?” her mother’s voice trembled with a fragile calm: “He’s on a mission in Heaven.”

People say memory is supposed to fade, but Ava’s never did. Instead, it hardened, like a photograph that refused to yellow with time.

Her father used to tell her a story before bed, the same one every night. A story about a forest. A magical one. With giants and chipmunks and talking trees. It always began the same way: “Out of the woods, a girl walked carrying a lantern made of moonlight…”

Even now, years later, Ava could hear the low rumble of his voice. She was twenty-three, finishing her last semester of college, and yet some nights she still laid awake, waiting for him to pick up the tale where he’d left it.

It was early spring. She had her final exams coming, her last steps toward adulthood. Which seemed like a joke. She was about to be one more unemployed statistic. That’s not how she wanted to start her adult life. Not at all. But, to be fair, Ava never had a normal, traditional life.

Her earliest memory wasn’t of a birthday party or a first day of school; it was of that shot, that single sound that kept echoing through her bones. Other children grew up with fairy-tale bedtimes and scraped knees. She’d grown up with the memory of a story. A single story: “Out of the woods, a girl walked carrying a lantern made of moonlight…”

Her mother never spoke of the shooting. Whenever Ava brought it up, the conversation closed like a slammed door, though Ava sensed it was more out of pain than indifference. “We’ve moved on,” her mother would say.

But Ava hadn’t moved on. Not really. And she knew her mother hadn’t either.

Her mother’s silence wasn’t a sign of forgetfulness. It was an armor. Ava saw it in the way she lingered over old photographs when she thought no one was watching, in the way she still kept her wedding ring tucked inside a small velvet box. They both carried the same wound, just dressed it differently.

Someone knocked on the door of her room. Two quick taps, a pause, then one more.

“Come in,” Ava called, brushing a stray pencil shaving from her sketchbook.

The door creaked open, and August stepped inside, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. For a heartbeat, she caught her breath: same strong jawline as their father, same warm brown eyes, even the slight tilt of his smile. Sometimes it felt like their dad had stepped back into the room wearing August’s college sweatshirt.

“Guess who just scored an A in Advanced Math?” he announced, holding up a graded paper like a trophy.

Ava leaned back in her chair, pretending to squint. “Hmm…the neighbor’s cat finally mastered calculus?”

He laughed, crossing the room to drop the paper on her desk. “Go on, admire my genius.”

“You really are impossible,” she said, but her smile betrayed her pride.

August was in his second year of mechatronic engineering, which was a natural choice for someone who’d been dismantling radios and reassembling them since grade school. Numbers and circuits came to him like second nature.

Ava‌ felt most alive with a sketchbook in hand. She wasn’t bad at math, but it never gave her the quiet rush she felt when a drawing finally matched the image in her head. That’s why she had chosen graphic design, despite relatives who’d gently suggested “something more practical.”

August glanced at the half-finished illustration on her desk: a swirl of color and shadow that hinted at a forest scene. “This is good,” he said. “Better than good.”

She hesitated, pencil poised. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so,” he replied, his voice softening. “And don’t look at me like that. An A in math doesn’t mean I don’t get art.”

Ava smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Well, Mr. Genius, maybe I’ll let you design the circuits when I open my own studio.”

“Deal,” he said, tapping the edge of her desk before heading for the door. “But only if you name a project after me. Something with gears and lasers.”

Their laughter faded, leaving only the soft hum of Ava’s desk lamp and the muted sounds of rain against the window.

August shifted his weight, his easy grin slipping. “So…are you going?” he asked at last.

Ava kept her eyes on the sketch in front of her, tracing the same line again and again until the pencil smudged. She didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t push. He never had to. August had a way of hearing the words she didn’t speak.

“Mom wants you to go,” he said, quieter this time. “She’s just…not good at asking.”

Her throat tightened. She set the pencil down but still didn’t look up.

Ava exhaled, the breath shivering out of her. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just…”

“I know,” he said, cutting gently across her hesitation. “It’s Dad. It’s everything.”

Finally, she met his gaze. The same eyes, the same shape and depth as their father’s, steady and understanding.

Sunday had finally come. Ava sat on the bus, her knees pressed together, fingers intertwined so tightly her knuckles ached. Two more hours, she told herself. Just two more hours until she’d see it again. Her hometown, the streets she knew by heart, and the woman she had been avoiding for half a decade.

Her hands trembled in her lap. Five years. Five years since she had last stepped off at that station. Five years since she had looked her mother in the eyes. She tried to slow her breathing, but her chest rose and fell with quick, uneven gasps, as though her body already knew it was heading into something it couldn’t quite bear.

Outside, the rain had started to fall. The blurred world beyond made her feel like she was already looking back into memory.

“Mom, mom, mom…” The word whispered through her like a ghost.

She was eight years old again. A small hand tugging at her mother’s sleeve, eyes bright with childish insistence. It had been a rare evening out: Ava, August, and their mother at the movies. The theater had smelled of butter and cardboard, the kind of smell that stuck to your hair long after you left.

“Popcorn, please,” she had begged. Her mother had smiled then, a quick, tired smile, the kind she gave when she wanted to give everything but couldn’t always afford to. Ava remembered the crinkle of bills, the sound of kernels crackling in the machine, and the way her mother had balanced the tub of popcorn in one hand while guiding both children with the other.

The memory made her chest tighten. That warmth felt sharper now than any argument, any silence, any distance that had followed.

The bus rattled on. The rain softened. Ava leaned her head against the cool glass, her heart heavy with uncertainty, wondering if the woman waiting for her at the end of this road was the same one from her memory, or if those five long years had turned her into someone else entirely.

The bus hissed to a stop, and Ava stepped down into the damp air. The rain had eased to a drizzle. She pulled her coat tighter around her and quickened her pace. She was late. Too late, maybe.

Her shoes slapped against the pavement as she ran, heart hammering with every step. Same streets. Same houses leaning into one another. Same shopfronts she used to pass with August on their way to school. The town hadn’t changed at all. It was like time had been standing still here while she had been away.

The iron gates of the cemetery rose ahead, blackened by weather and age. She pushed them open, the hinges groaning, and hurried between rows of stone markers.

August was already there. His tall frame stood rigid, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. He turned as if he had felt her presence before he even saw her. Their eyes met for a brief second. No words.

And then she saw her.

Their mother.

She was standing beside August, her posture delicate. She hadn’t changed much. Her face was still the same one Ava remembered, but time had etched fine lines around her mouth, her hair threaded now with gray. She looked smaller somehow, as though the years had worn her down little by little.

In her hands, she cradled a bouquet of fresh flowers, their colors startling against the gray day. Ava realized with a jolt that her mother hadn’t noticed her approach. She was focused on the headstone in front of her, lips moving in a silent prayer.

A lump rose in Ava’s throat. She slowed her steps, her shoes sinking slightly into the wet earth. She didn’t know whether to call out, to rush forward, or to retreat into the rain.

The air was heavy with silence, except for the faint rustle of leaves and the sound of water dripping from the branches above.

Her mother still hadn’t seen her.

Ava froze a few feet from the headstone, the damp grass slick beneath her shoes. The marble slab seemed to hum in the drizzle, like it was holding a breath.

She’d always hated cemeteries, but this one clawed at her nerves differently. Because of the story.

Out of the woods, a girl walked carrying a lantern made of moonlight…

The line thrummed through her mind like a pulse. Her father’s voice, low and sure. He used to whisper it every night, but as she grew older, the words began to sound less like a bedtime tale and more like instructions.

The woods. The lantern. The girl.

Sometimes, in the years after his death, she’d wake in the dark, convinced someone was standing in the corner of her room, watching. A silhouette, faint as breath on glass. When she turned on the lamp, the corner was always empty. But the smell of rain and burnt metal lingered.

Now, standing at the grave, the same scent rose sharp and sudden, stronger than the wet earth around her.

A mission in Heaven, her mother had said. A mission. Who called death a mission? Ava’s chest tightened.

August’s head tilted slightly toward her, an unspoken question in his eyes. She barely registered it. The stone in front of her bore only a name and two dates, but her mind supplied more: a flicker of movement in the trees at the edge of the cemetery. A shadow slipping between trunks.

Her father’s story whispered again. Out of the woods…

She shut her eyes, willing the words away, but they pressed harder. She could almost feel the lantern’s cool glass in her palm.

A sudden crack of thunder made her flinch. Her mother finally turned, startled, the bouquet trembling in her hands.

“Ava,” she breathed. “You came.”

Her mother’s voice carried relief, but also something else. Hesitation? Guilt? Ava’s skin prickled.

“I almost didn’t,” Ava said, her own voice sounding far away.

Her mother reached for her, then stopped, fingers curling against her coat. “It’s good you did.”

The air between them vibrated with all the years of silence.

“Why did you tell me he was on a mission?” Ava asked. The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Her mother’s eyes flickered. “You were three,” she said softly. “I didn’t know how to tell you the truth.”

“That he was shot,” Ava said. “That someone aimed a gun and…”

Her mother flinched. “Please.”

Ava’s heart pounded. “It’s never faded. The sound. The smell. And the story. Why did he tell that story every night? Why the lantern? Why the woods?”

Her mother looked surprised. “It was just a bedtime story.”

“No,” Ava whispered, shaking her head. “It wasn’t. I see it. I hear it. Sometimes I think he’s trying to tell me something. That he’s not…gone.”

The rain intensified. August stepped closer, his hand warm on her shoulder.

“Ave,” he said quietly. “Dad’s gone. We all miss him, but…”

“But what if he isn’t?” The words burst out, ragged. “What if he’s out there waiting? What if I’m supposed to find him?”

Her mother’s face crumpled, the fine lines deepening. “Oh, honey.”

Ava turned from them, scanning the tree line. Every shadow seemed to shift. A darker patch of gray slipped behind a trunk, quick as a heartbeat.

Her breath came fast. “Do you smell it?” she asked. “Metal. Like the night it happened.”

August inhaled, rain dripping from his hair. “It’s just the air after lightning.”

But she wasn’t sure. The iron tang coated her tongue, undeniable.

Her mother moved closer, ignoring the mud. “Ava, look at me.”

She didn’t. Her gaze stayed on the woods, heart thudding to the rhythm of her father’s story.

Out of the woods, a girl walked carrying a lantern made of moonlight…

The wind gusted, and for a split second she thought she saw a glow between the trees, like moonlight caught in glass.

Her pulse spiked.

“Ava!” August’s voice cut through the rush of blood in her ears.

She blinked. The glow vanished. Only dark trunks and mist remained.

Slowly, she turned back. Her mother stood inches away now, eyes wide and wet. “You’ve carried this alone for too long,” she said. “I should have helped you. I was so afraid of my grief that I left you with yours.”

The admission cracked something open inside Ava.

Her mother took her hands, cold and trembling. “Your father loved that story because it was about finding light when everything is dark. That’s all. A reminder.”

A lantern made of moonlight. Not a message. A metaphor.

Ava wanted to believe it. The storm in her chest began to fade away, though the rain was still falling

August wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You’re not alone, Ave. You never were.”

She closed her eyes, letting their warmth seep into her, the scent of wet earth replacing the smell of burnt metal.

When she finally looked at the headstone, she saw it differently. It was a marker of a life. Her father’s life.

She knelt and traced the engraved letters, the stone slick beneath her fingertips. For the first time, the name felt real.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “But I’m okay.”

The woods no longer seemed to whisper. The air tasted only of rain.

Her mother squeezed her hand, and August’s steady presence anchored her. The shadows beyond the cemetery remained just shadows.

As they turned to leave, a break in the clouds let a slice of moonlight spill across the path. Ava glanced back once more.

The stone gleamed softly, as if lit from within. Not a lantern, not a sign, just the quiet, silver blessing of night.

And for the first time in twenty years, Ava felt the story end.