When I was five, my twin sister walked into the trees behind our house and never came back. That is the sentence that has followed me through every stage of my life.
The police told my parents her body was found. I never saw a grave. I never saw a coffin. What remained was silence that stretched across decades and a quiet feeling that the story had never truly reached its end.
My name is Dorothy. I am 73 years old. My life has always carried an empty space shaped like a little girl named Ella.
Ella Was My Twin
Ella was my twin. We were five when she disappeared.
She was in the corner that day, holding her red ball.
We were not the kind of twins people describe casually. We shared everything. A bed. Thoughts. Reactions. If she cried, I cried with her. If I laughed, she laughed louder. She had courage. I followed her lead.
That day, our parents were at work, and we were staying with our grandmother.
The Day Everything Changed
I was sick. My throat burned, and I could barely keep my eyes open. Grandma sat beside me, pressing a cool cloth against my forehead.
“Rest,” she told me softly. “Ella will play quietly.”
Ella stayed in the corner, bouncing her red ball against the wall, humming to herself. I remember the steady sound. I remember the rain beginning outside.
Then everything faded.
