The morning after her perfect wedding, my sister vanished without a trace—no note, no goodbye, just silence. For ten years, we lived with questions. Then, in a dusty attic box, I found a letter she wrote the day she disappeared—and everything changed.
The last time I saw my sister Laura, she was spinning in circles on the makeshift dance floor Daddy had hammered together that morning, her bare feet moving through beer-slicked plywood and soft patches of dirt. The hem of her dress, once ivory, was stained with a mix of barbecue sauce, spilled punch, and good old Iowa dust. But none of that mattered.
