One night, I was home waiting for my wife, who I thought had our daughter, until I heard her scream for me.

“Daddy!” My daughter, Annie yelled from her room. I shot upstairs, peeling back each one of them as I raced to her room.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, out of breath, looking around with my eyes.

“Daddy,” she whispered. “My closet… something’s in there.

“You just had a bad dream.” I told her. “Nothing’s there, silly.”

“Daddy… the monster’s in my closet!” 

“Okay. Okay,” I said. “Look, I’ll show you, nothings’s there.”

I walked to the closet. The closer I approached it, the thicker the air got. When I touched the slider, it shocked me, and wouldn’t budge. I gave it a little more pressure and it casually slid open.

“See,” I said, gazing into the darkness. “Nothing’ but clothes and Mr. GrumpGrump.”

While I stared at Annie, my phone buzzed. I reached in my pocket and pulled it out. There was a text from my wife. “Annie and I will be home in a few minutes, I grabbed us a pizza.”

When I looked back up, Annie was gone. I always wondered if I had momentarily lost my mind, until yesterday. I woke up inside of a hospital, but when I looked in the mirror, I was only sixteen years old.

Diane wore her serious expression. Opposite her sat Marcus Okafor, a man who, eighteen months previously, had been nobody. Now he was everywhere.

DIANE: Marcus, let us be honest. You went from broke to a nine-figure exit in under two years. People call it a miracle. Others call it luck. How did you accomplish such a feat in so short a time?

Marcus sipped his water.

MARCUS: I saw a real problem.

Diane nodded.

DIANE: Which was?

MARCUS: That I haven't any money.

DIANE: ...

MARCUS: I decided to start a business to solve that problem. I did exactly that.

DIANE: ...

MARCUS: ...

DIANE: Very well, but surely there was more. Market analysis. Fund-raising. Strategy.

MARCUS: No. I woke up. I was poor. I hated it. I made a thing. People gave me money. I stopped being poor. Problem solved.

DIANE: But that's not a business plan.

MARCUS: Is it? Because my bank account says otherwise.

DIANE: Surely you had investors. A pitch deck. A market.

MARCUS: My pitch deck was a screenshot of my bank account. The market was me. The product was money. I sold it to myself. Then I scaled.

DIANE: You can't just scale selling money to yourself.

MARCUS: You can if you're disruptive.

DIANE: That doesn't mean anything.

MARCUS: Exactly. That's the beauty of it.

DIANE: ...

PRODUCER (offstage): We're losing the audience.

DIANE: Marcus, be serious. What was your actual strategy?

MARCUS: You know how when you are hungry, you do not read a book on farming? You simply find food. Same thing.

DIANE: That's it?

MARCUS: That's the whole keynote. I do it for forty minutes at conferences now. They pay me six figures.

DIANE: To say that?

MARCUS: To say it confidently.

DIANE: And people buy it?

MARCUS: They buy the confidence. The story is just the wrapper.

DIANE: So you're saying success is just... believing you're successful?

MARCUS: No. I'm saying success is charging people to hear you say you're successful.

DIANE: That's cynical.

MARCUS: That's a business model.

DIANE: Any advice for aspiring entrepreneurs?

MARCUS: Stop aspiring. Start solving. Preferably something that pays.

DIANE: Like what?

MARCUS: Like not having money.

DIANE: ...

MARCUS: ...

DIANE: ...

The interview went viral. Not because of his insight, but because everyone wanted to know whether he was joking.

He was not.

A bluejay shrieked overhead.

I looked up to see it sail between the neon orange leaves, still calling.

I was sitting on a damp log, bologna sandwich in hand. My backpack rested near my feet in the moss.

I wasn't supposed to be here. But someone had to find him. The police certainly weren't going to.

I put the last bite into my mouth and stood. I was just taking a swig of water when I heard it: a low bellow, like a large injured animal.

I froze, remembering what they had said about bears, and moose. About my little brother being taken by something in these woods.

I waited for a long moment, but heard nothing more. I capped my bottle and slung my backpack over my shoulder.

I slid a hand in my jeans pocket, just to make sure it was still there. If this was what I thought it was, I would need an item to trade. And it would have to be a good one.

The wind sent the leaves above rolling as I got moving again. The wide, bird-like tracks were easy to follow.

Twilight streaked shadows under the clouds. Mom would be terrified.

I got out my flashlight.

Cold rushed through my veins.

This was it.

The altar was in the middle of a cobblestone square. Leaves and moss were scattered across the stones.

I wished I could see more clearly into the thick woods around me.

It had to be done.

I forced one foot after the other. I brought out the object from my pocket and set it on the lichen covered table.

The bone from my father's grave gleamed in the darkness.

I hoped this would grab its attention.

I would get Benjamin back.

Already I heard its heavy footfalls approaching.

My mouth was dry. I couldn't swallow.

The trees rustled in front of me. Out came a figure, ten feet tall, with a ram's skull over its face and knobbly bird legs. It paused. I felt the eyes hiding in those shadowy sockets watching me.

I pointed to the stone. "You can have this if you bring me Benjamin. You can have the rest, too. Just give him back."

The creature came closer. Hairy gray fingers came for the bone and lifted it. A moment passed.

Then the creature's hand closed around the bone, and it started walking away. It looked back.

It wanted me to follow.

I hustled after, knowing it might be the last thing I ever did.

The forest was endless and I was lost by the time we got to the cave.

Someone was on a bed of moss, sleeping. It was Benjamin.

I stumbled over the spongy forest floor. "Benjamin!" I shook him by the shoulder.

He didn't move. He wasn't breathing.

I turned back to the creature, eyes already watering. "What did you-"

It waved a hand. The air shimmered.

Benjamin stirred. He blinked. Looked confusedly up at the navy sky and looming pines. "What? Where-"

I hugged him. Then straightened. "We need to get back. Mom's about to have a heart attack."

The creature brought us to the edge of the woods, then lumbered off without a word.

Benjamin couldn't remember what had happened to him.

I was just glad he was safe and couldn't wait to be home.

"Last time you ever run off like that after Mom tells you to do something, right?"

He smiled.

Mom wept when she opened the door. She put her arms around me. I waited for her to hug Benjamin, too, but she never acknowledged him.

The Lies in this city are thick enough to drown in.

The bigger the lie the bigger the praise. The bolder the truth, the worse the punishment. Choosing not to speak living my life as a mute, remembering the others who lost their lives.

Don't be surprised if you see this with your own eyes, as it isn't something that's hidden, it's something that's known. You mustn't let them know you know, or they will find you. The darkness grabs at you like a cat that doesn't want to lose its fresh catch. Grasping onto your heart, how do you live in a word where lies come before the honesty? The honesty is treated like a crime. I think I'd rather die ...

For weeks, she has wondered why she hasn’t received a single letter from him. She has written hundreds, yet not one has been answered. So many questions left unanswered… Tears run down her face. She has no idea what happened to him or why he has fallen silent, but she still holds on to the hope that he will return.

She feels an inexplicable exhaustion, yet she refuses to give up waiting for a reply from her beloved. Waiting, always waiting, for some sign that he still loves her, even though she no longer knows how much time has passed. The clock stopped on the day he left, after kissing her forehead and promising that he would return to her side.

Everything around her is changing. The house withers, the furniture gathers dust, and the memory of her beloved slowly begins to fade. She can no longer clearly remember his face, the sound of his voice, or the way he used to look at her. Yet one thing remains untouched in her memory: his promise to return.

The letters keep flying, and time keeps passing. She watches them deteriorate, the paper growing old and turning yellow. She no longer remembers how many days have passed. The seasons come and go beyond her window, while she continues waiting for some sign from her beloved.

Her pencil, worn down by time, barely responds to the movements of her weakened hand. Her hands are wrinkled, though she has yet to realize how many years have gone by.

Suddenly, trying to remember where she is, she slowly touches her face and discovers an old woman she cannot remember becoming.
She had never noticed how time had passed, leaving its marks upon her body and her soul.
Her beloved disappeared, and he never found his way back to her.