He was barefoot and sunburned, crying beside a black car, clutching the handle like it might open if he just begged hard enough.

“Hey buddy,” I said, kneeling down. “Where’s your mom or dad?”

“I wanna go back in the movie,” he sobbed.

The car was empty—no toys, no car seat, no parents. As I picked him up, he whispered, “My other dad brought me.”

“Other dad?”

“The one who doesn’t talk with his mouth.”

Security footage showed him appearing out of nowhere, a shadowy hand holding his. The police took him in, calling him Eli. At the hospital, he fell silent. I left my number, thinking that was the end.

Two nights later, Eli showed up at my window with a toy car. “I don’t like the hospital,” he said softly. “They won’t let me talk to my dad.”

He stayed the night, then vanished.

An officer told me this wasn’t the first time—other kids, same story, same quiet parent, then gone.

I found news reports—kids appearing from nowhere, talking about a “quiet” or “mirror” dad. Then disappearing.

Eli came back once more. We made pancakes. He left a drawing—three stick figures: him, me, and a faceless one with long arms.

A week later, he was gone for good.

I wasn’t scared. I understood.

Six months later, a girl named Sophie arrived. Same eyes. Same story.

Now I keep the guest room ready. Just in case.

Maybe these kids aren’t lost. Maybe they’re being carried—gently—through the dark.