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Originally posted on Substack: https://cluelesswriterschronicles.substack.com/p/shadows-of-silicon-docks-13
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Megan O'Reilly was never late.
That’s what her mother, Deirdre, repeated to herself in the kitchen, the tea cooling untouched by her elbow. The house was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that settles when something's off but you can’t put a name to it yet. Deirdre had sent a text, a casual "Where are you?" message that now sat unanswered, the screen dim. Fifteen minutes, then thirty. Megan was always home by four. Always. She was never late.
It was five.
The park was close—five minutes by foot, if you walked slowly. Megan had insisted on walking home from school alone since she turned twelve, a concession her mother finally granted after months of negotiation. Deirdre agreed, so long as she came straight home. No detours. No lingering. The texts were a promise, one Megan never failed to keep. Until today.
Deirdre glanced at the clock. It was five-twelve.
Outside, a car door slammed. She half-rose, peering through the window, but it wasn’t Megan. Just a neighbor returning from work, an intrusion into the eerie stillness. She sat back down, her fingers nervously tapping the ceramic of the untouched mug, and forced herself to breathe slowly. There would be an explanation, she thought. There had to be. A friend, maybe. Someone from school.
She sent another text. “Where are you, Megan?”
And then, after a pause: “Call me.”
Nothing.
The minutes stretched, bending time into a taut thread. At five-thirty, Deirdre’s fingers hovered over the phone, then finally pressed the number she should have called earlier.
It rang twice before he answered. "Aiden?"
There was a pause, faint static. "Yeah. What is it?"
"Have you heard from Megan?"
"No. I’ve been in meetings all afternoon. Why?"