I stepped off the bus, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, the familiar sight of my hometown coming into view.

Everything looked the same, yet different.

The houses, the trees, even the old diner on the corner.

They were all still there, but a heaviness hung in the air.

I was excited to see my family, but I couldn't shake this weird feeling in my gut.

As I walked up the driveway, I noticed the lawn hadn't been mowed in weeks.

My parents' car was parked out front, but the house seemed quiet, too quiet. I pushed open the door and called

out, Mom, Dad, I'm home. No answer. I dropped my bag by the door and headed into the living room.

That's when I saw them. My parents were sitting on the couch holding each other. Mom's eyes were

red and puffy,

like she'd been crying for days. Dad looked up at me, his face pale and drawn.

What happened? I asked my heart racing.

It's Tristan, Dad said, his voice cracking. He's gone. I echoed not understanding. What do you mean gone?

Mom burst into tears, burying her face in Dad's shoulder.

He hugged her tighter, but his eyes stayed on me.

He went on a camping trip with his friends a few weeks ago.

They said he wandered off and got lost.

They couldn't find him.

I felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me.

Tristan, my little brother, lost?

No way.

But did they look for him?

...