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Sometime in the early morning hours, I woke with a dry throat. The house was quiet in that hushed, sacred way it only ever feels on Christmas Eve. I padded down the hallway—and froze.

Mya’s bed was empty.

Panic hit instantly, sharp and breath-stealing. I checked the bathroom. The living room. The kitchen. Then I spotted it: a piece of paper propped carefully against a gift under the tree.