Every year on the anniversary of my brother's disappearance, I have the same routine.

I guess you'd call it a ritual.

It starts with me going upstairs to the attic.

The ritual has changed slightly over the years, but at its core it's still the same.

I get away for a while on my own and try to reconnect with the past.

Lose myself for a bit. My wife and kids leave me to it. They know the significance of that date, and they know I like to have my own space.

The only thing they don't know is what exactly I get up to when I'm off on my own, what the ritual involves.

And you know what?

I don't think I'm ever going to tell them. Walking upstairs to the attic this afternoon,

it all came flooding back to me. The memories from that day. 25 years is a long time, but as I made my way

across the floorboards at the top of my house, the light from my torch picking out dust motes in the dark.

It didn't feel like a long time.

The past felt close.

I could see the shadow draped roof beams and the cardboard boxes and I could picture myself in a different attic altogether.

An attic from my past.

And when I pause and shut my eyes, I could see Ben beside me.

As I made my way to the wooden trunk pushed back into the far corner, the same trunk I open every year.

I remembered.

My little brother disappeared two weeks after we moved house.

It was our first major move as kids.

We'd grown up in a town, but for years our mom and dad had been desperate for us to live in the countryside.

It was a dream of theirs and not long after I turned 10 we finally managed it. I loved that house. Both of us did. It was an old

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