Morning came like a fog she couldn't shake off. Ciara hadn't slept at all; her eyes burned, and her heart felt hollow. Mike's side of the bed was untouched, his pillow cold, his phone still on the dresser. He hadn't even taken his charger.
By noon, she was pacing the living room, checking her phone every minute. No calls, no messages, no sign. The dread that had started as a whisper was now screaming inside her chest.
She drove to his office the next day, desperate for answers. The glass doors reflected her pale, sleepless face as she stepped inside. The receptionist looked up, startled.
"Good morning, Mrs. Benson. You're here for Mr. Mike?"
"Yes," Ciara said quickly. "Is he in? He left for work two nights ago and hasn't returned."
The woman frowned. "No, he hasn't been in since last week. I thought he was on vacation with you."
Ciara froze. "He was. But he said he had to come back early for work."
The receptionist shook her head, confused. "He didn't mention any urgent project."
Panic clawed at Ciara's throat. She turned away before the woman could say more. Everything she thought she knew was unraveling.
---
Her next stop was the police station. Her hands trembled as she clutched the small photograph of Mike—the one from their wedding day, where he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.
"I want to report a missing person," she said again, this time with tears brimming.
The officer behind the desk glanced at her, then at the form. "Name?"
"Mike Generic Benson. My husband."
He sighed, filling out the details. "When was the last time you saw him?"
"Three days ago," she whispered. "He left for work and never came back."
He nodded slowly. "Alright, ma'am. We'll file this report and start looking. But it might take time."
"Time?" she snapped. "It's already been days!"
The officer softened his tone. "We'll do what we can, Mrs. Benson. Please go home and rest. We'll contact you if we find anything."
But rest was the last thing Ciara could do.
---
Weeks turned into months. Three long months of empty nights and unanswered prayers. The police searched—checking nearby towns, motels, highways. They interviewed his colleagues, old friends, even distant family. Every lead ended in silence.
They found no body, no car, no trace. It was as though Mike Benson had simply vanished from the face of the earth.
Eventually, the calls from the police stopped coming. The visits slowed. And one gray afternoon, Inspector Gabriel showed up at her door with a file in his hand and pity in his eyes.
"Mrs. Benson," he said gently. "We've done everything we can. There's no sign of your husband. I'm sorry, but… after this long, we have to consider the possibility that he's gone."
"Gone?" she repeated, her voice sharp and brittle. "Gone where? You mean dead, don't you?"
He hesitated. "Yes, ma'am. Statistically speaking, after three months with no—"
"Stop!" she cut in, trembling. "Don't you dare say that word in my house."
"Mrs. Benson—"
"No!" she cried, her voice cracking. "He's not dead. I would feel it if he were. I know he's alive!"
Gabriel exchanged a look with the officer beside him, then sighed. "I understand this is hard. But sometimes accepting the truth—"
"The truth?" she laughed bitterly. "You wouldn't know the truth if it sat right in front of you."
---
When they finally left, Ciara sank onto the couch, her heart pounding. She stared at the empty doorway where Mike used to stand every morning before leaving for work, coffee in hand, his tie crooked, his smile easy.
Now it felt like a ghost lived there instead.
She ran her hands through her hair, fighting back tears. If they can't find him, she thought, then I will.
It didn't matter how long it took. She refused to bury a man without proof of his death.
That night, she packed a small bag—maps, flashlight, a photo of the two of them. She got into the car and drove. She didn't know where she was going, only that she had to keep moving.
The road stretched endlessly before her, lined with shadows and uncertainty.
"Hold on, Mike," she whispered into the dark. "I'm coming for you."
---
As the miles slipped by, so did the last of her composure. Grief gave way to obsession. She stopped at small towns, asked strangers, showed his picture to anyone who would listen.
Most shook their heads. Some took pity. A few looked away, as though afraid to be caught in the orbit of her despair.
Every night, she parked by the roadside and whispered his name into the silence. "Where are you?"
But the wind never answered.
Her sister called, begging her to come home. Friends left messages that went unheard. Ciara wasn't listening anymore. She lived now only for the faint, impossible hope that somewhere, somehow, Mike was still breathing.
---
Then one night, as she drove through the rain-soaked backroads, exhaustion finally caught up with her. The wipers squealed against the glass, and her vision blurred from the tears she refused to shed.
Images of Mike filled her head—his laughter, his warmth, the way he used to say her name like it meant something sacred.
She didn't see the tree until it was too late.
The impact came with a thunderous crack, the world spinning into chaos. Her forehead slammed against the steering wheel, and warmth flooded her face. Blood. Her vision faded into red and black.
The last thing she remembered before darkness claimed her was whispering his name.
"Mike…"
Then everything went silent.