The sun is bright in the summer sky. Light wind rustles the leaves. A girl plays on the swing outside a country house. Some loose chickens cluck about the yard. The young child swings her ragdoll on the swing.
A woman is in the kitchen seen from the swings though the window. Busy with cooking lunch. Long skirt sweeps the floor. Blouse stuck to her back from the heat. Hair neatly tucked under a shawl, tied under the chin. Her back is to the window. The sound of the swing rope creaking coming in though the open window. She put the knife down, vegetables sliced, and turns to the open door. Chickens run around the yard. The dog is asleep at its house, chained down to not run away. All is peaceful. The woman goes outside. Calls out.
"Sasha, idy sjuda!"
She walks around the house to the tree. The swing is swinging, the doll is on the ground. There is no sign of the girl.
A small, quiet English town. Children playing outside in the playground. A boy kicks the ball too close to the street. He runs to get it back. Father is reading a newspaper on the bench. Glances at the boy running, flips the page. A minute passes. There is a scream. The next thing he sees is a black car driving away from the scene at full speed. The boy is gone.
Once in a while a child goes missing. Nobody knows where or how. Sometimes people claim to have seen a man carrying a child. Sometimes it's a black car. Sometimes they just vanish like something lifted them up into the sky. Posters with their faces, on the bill boards, on cartons of milk. But there are too many across the world. Different nations, different families. Lost. Never to be seen again. Forgotten by the families that once searched for them. Dead to the world.
She opens her eyes. The room is white, clean. A bed, a table, a case for books. Nothing unnecessary. Outside the door they are waiting. The tall man in a suit.
"Alex" he calls her.
The name feels somehow foreign. She know it is her name, yet I doesn't feel entirely hers. The man places a hand on her shoulder. Escorts her. There are others like him, waiting. So many doors, so many little girls. One by one they come. Same white clothes. Same as hers.
The stair splits the grand hall. Girls come from the left. Boys on the right. She glances over her shoulder. The first of the boys are starting to come down. The dining hall of the orphanage is split into two. The massive room with tall gothic ceiling and stained glass window. Luxurious yet cold and empty. Intimidating. The chandeliers light up the room casting shadows on the floor. Many tables combined into one long line. One on the left and one on the right. Girls sit separate from the boys.
The man in the suit pull back the chair for her to sit.
"Thank you" she says, with no hint of an accent.
The men don't do it for the boys. Just the girls. They wear the same white as everyone. The men and women in black suits that follow them around everywhere stick out in the white mass of children. The waiters come with food. Everyone is served the same thing at the same time. She eats slowly, quietly. One of the boys makes a slurping sound. The man biding him places his hand on the boy shoulder, gets him up, and takes him away. The boy a little rounder than the other kids. The seat remains empty for the remainder of breakfast. A reminder.
In class they are together, but still divided. Boys on side, girls on the other. The men in suits don't come to class. They wait outside or perhaps not. The teachers come in one by one until lunch time. Nobody talks in class. Everybody listens. Takes notes. Reads. She likes learning new things. Things she wouldn't have learned otherwise. She is lucky to be here. They are all. They should be thankful for this privilege. To him.
The fat boy didn't return to class. He wasn't at lunch either. It was when they removed his seat, she knew he won't be back.
The boat lands on the sandy shore of the island. The local's stare in awe and surprise. Men in dark suits and lab coats disembark on the pier. One of them holds out his hand for a woman. Short blond hair slicked back. Lips bright red. A dark brown coat over the white suit. Heels clicking on the wooden pier. Locals whisper among themselves.
Something in the breeze feels strange. She pauses for a moment. Greyish blue eyes looking around the similarly colored water and the sand on the beach. The cliffs. Seagulls cry out. There is a moment of familiarity. A feeling that this place is familiar. Then it passes.
They walk up to the town. The people are scared, looking at them with wide eyes.
"Ignorant peasants" she thinks.
They pass a house with a tree. An old swing hangs on the branch of the now dead tree. An old woman with a long black skirt and a black shawl come to look at the commotion. Her face wrinkly. She gives the place a brief glance and turns away. Everything is old, decaying. Filthy. Disgusting.
Nobody notices. No one remembers. The long lost daughter has returned to the home she does not remember. To the one who no longer recognizes her. The truth of who they were is . Forgotten. Zabytij.