Sarah's POV
Two Weeks Later:
The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of my living room, painting soft rectangles of light on the floor. I sat on the couch, coffee mug in hand, but the liquid had gone cold an hour ago. My phone lay silent beside me—no calls, no texts. It had been that way since Hector's abrupt goodbye. Each passing day without him felt like a piece of me was eroding, yet I refused to believe he'd truly walked away of his own free will.
At some point, I realized I needed to do something, anything, to keep from drowning in my own thoughts. That's when I remembered Hector's old belongings tucked away in the spare closet. He'd left a few boxes here months ago, back when we talked about possibly moving in together. My stomach clenched at the memory of those hopeful conversations, now overshadowed by his disappearance.
I rose from the couch, setting my untouched coffee on the table. The floorboards creaked under my feet as I crossed the small hallway to the spare room. It was mostly used for storage—a couple of suitcases, old textbooks, a vacuum cleaner with a fraying cord. Tucked behind these was a stack of cardboard boxes labeled with Hector's handwriting.
I crouched down, running my fingertips over the scrawled words: Books, Photos, Misc. A pang of sadness struck me. We'd once joked about how unhelpful "Misc" was, promising we'd sort it properly when we had time. Now, it felt like an echo from another life.
Steeling myself, I pulled the "Misc" box out and set it on the floor. Dust motes swirled in the sunlight as I lifted the flaps. Inside were random items—an old watch with a cracked face, receipts from a trip we took to Miami, a half-used cologne bottle. The scent of cedar and spice wafted up, painfully familiar. Beneath these was a small, bubble-wrapped bundle.
My breath caught. I carefully unwrapped it, revealing a picture frame. The glass was intact, though the edges of the frame were scuffed, as if it had been dropped or hastily handled. Inside the frame was a photo of us from about a year ago—Hector's arm draped around my shoulders, my head leaning against him, both of us smiling at the camera in a crowded outdoor market. The sun had been harsh that day, but in the photo, we looked radiant and carefree.
Tears pricked my eyes. At least he left some of his belongings here. Hector was sentimental about our photos, always insisting they be displayed. He once told me pictures were anchors, keeping memories alive when everything else changed. I traced the outline of his face through the glass.
Then I noticed something odd. The frame's backing wasn't flush; a corner of the cardboard backing slightly opened. My brow furrowed. Has the frame been tampered with?
I set the frame down and carefully ran my finger along the edge. It shifted. A memory tugged at me: Hector once mentioned a secure method of hiding small items behind a frame's photo. He'd teased me about his "spy" days, but I'd laughed it off as a joke. Now, a chill ran down my spine. What if this was more than a joke?
My heart thumped as I pried the backing open. The photo slipped out, revealing the bare cardboard. At first glance, nothing else was there. But when I tilted the frame, a thin slip of paper slid free, landing on the floor. I held my breath and picked it up. It wasn't just paper—it felt sturdier, like a card or laminate. And it bore a series of letters and numbers I didn't recognize.
A code? Coordinates? My hands shook. This had to be what Hector wanted me to find—why else would he leave a cherished photo behind in a battered frame? He must have known I'd eventually dig through these boxes, refusing to let go.
I inhaled sharply, tears threatening again, but this time they were mixed with a surge of purpose. Hector had left me a message. A real message, not the cold text that had shattered my heart. I pressed the slip of coded text against my chest, as though it might bring me closer to him.
My phone buzzed from the living room, jolting me out of my reverie. I scrambled to my feet, nearly dropping the code in my rush to answer. My mind raced—could it be Hector calling at last?
It wasn't. My shoulders sagged when I saw the screen: Mom. I hesitated before hitting Accept.
"Sarah, sweetie," she said, her voice warm but tinged with concern. "I've been worried. You haven't been answering my calls."
I swallowed, forcing calm into my tone. "Sorry, Mom. I've just been… busy."
"Is it about Hector?" she asked gently. She'd never hidden her fondness for him, or her confusion at his sudden disappearance. I'd told her the bare minimum—he left me a text and vanished. She hadn't pried too deeply, but I could hear the unspoken questions in every pause.
I clutched the coded slip. "Yeah. Still no word. Listen, I'll call you back later, okay? Something came up."
She sighed. "Alright, dear. Please take care of yourself."
"Will do," I murmured, ending the call before my composure broke. I couldn't talk to my mother about this yet. Not until I had some answers.
My gaze flicked back to the code. A swirl of adrenaline and uncertainty filled me. I needed help deciphering it. Jasmine was the obvious choice—she'd been with me through this from the start. But a flicker of doubt crossed my mind. What if this code was more dangerous than we realized? Hector might had vanished because of secrets he'd discovered. Was it fair to drag her deeper into this?
The alternative was to do it alone, which felt impossible. I squared my shoulders. Jasmine deserved to know. She'd want to help, no matter the risk. And if the code pointed me to Hector, she'd never forgive me for shutting her out.
I grabbed my phone again, scrolling to Jasmine's contact. Before I could press Dial, a gentle knock sounded at my door. My heart leaped. Another wave of hope—could it be Hector?