Later that day, I found myself at my office desk, the note unfolded in front of me. I couldn’t focus on the reports or the emails that piled up like an unscalable mountain. The mystery had latched onto my thoughts like ivy on brick. I decided to call my friend, Mark, who worked in local law enforcement. I needed to know if there was any way to trace the origins of such a note or if there were any relevant incidents involving a girl matching her description. ‘Hey, Mark, I need a favor,’ I said, trying to sound casual despite the tension in my voice. ‘I’ve got a bit of a mystery on my hands.’ I explained the situation, and Mark promised to look into it. ‘I’ll see what I can find,’ he assured me. ‘But don’t get your hopes up too high. These things can sometimes be a dead-end.’ I thanked him, knowing that even a small lead could break the case open.
The next day, as I sipped my morning coffee, my phone buzzed with a message from Mark. ‘No records matching the description,’ it read. ‘But I’ll keep an ear out.’ The disappointment was sharp, but not unexpected. I found myself replaying the encounter in my mind, hoping to find a clue I might have missed. Could it have been a prank? Or something more sinister? I decided to visit the store again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl or find someone who might have seen her. The cashier, a middle-aged woman with a kind face, remembered her. ‘She comes in here sometimes,’ she said, ‘usually alone, and always buys the same things: bread, milk, sometimes canned soup.’ Her words painted a picture of a life on the margins, and I felt a pang of empathy for the girl and her brother. But sympathy would not solve the mystery. I needed more than just observations of her routine.
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