The drive away from home was quiet, except for the sobs I tried to keep hidden. I pressed my forehead to the cold window, replaying every memory—sneaking cookies past bedtime, building forts out of blankets, whispering secrets in the dark. I told myself we would see each other soon, but days turned to weeks, then months. Letters went unanswered, phone calls grew shorter. The distance wasn’t just miles; it was a growing chasm between the lives we were forced into. I learned to stop talking about her because it hurt too much, like pressing on a bruise that never healed For 25 years, I have lived with the ache of an empty space where my sister should be. I was only five when we were torn apart, too young to understand what forever could mean, but old enough to feel the loss settle deep in my bones. I’ve spent my life wondering where she is, what kind of person she became, if she ever thinks of me the way I think of her. Time has stolen so much from us, but I still hold onto the hope that before my final breath, I will see her again. I imagine the moment a thousand ways—will she recognize me? Will she still care? Or will we be nothing more than strangers bound by blood and memories of a childhood that slipped through our fingers like sand? I don’t know what the future holds, but I know I can’t let my story end without trying to find her.